And Then There Were None
by Snow-owl01
Summary: Harry Potter gets thrown into an alternate universe, then another, as he fights his way home. Fate and Death only want to keep order in all the universes, but they've opened Pandora's box instead. Meow. Black comedy. Maybe. SLASH. Tom/Harry.
1. Chapter 1

**And Then There Were None**

**Summary:**

After growing up with Tom Riddle and surviving the war against Grindelwald, Harry Potter thinks he has seen it all — until he dies. Luckily, Fate and Death decide to offer him another chance. They give him a task to perform — go to an alternate universe and raise another Tom Riddle for eighteen years — in exchange for his life back. They ask him to lay low and to play his role. But reality has a funny sense of humour, and Harry Potter is never one for anonymity anyways.

Fate and Death only want to keep order in all the universes, but they've opened Pandora's box instead.

* * *

This is my attempt at black comedy (except that I don't even know what that is...) Include murders, randomness, angst, crazy possessive dark lords. Be afraid, be very afraid.

**Pairing:** Tom/Harry

**Author's note:** So the concept of this story is really weird. So basically, I mix three types of AU!stories into one _—_ Harry-grows-up-with-Tom-Riddle-AU, Harry-adopts-Tom-Riddle-AU and Voldemort-wins-it-all-AU. Try it, and let me know if it makes sense at all. Seriously, tell me if it makes sense AT ALL.

* * *

**_parseltongue_**

* * *

Harry Potter is nowhere, standing in prefect silence, all alone. There is a bright mist all around him and nothing else exists. He is not sure where he is; he is not sure who he is; he is not sure if he is real or...instead, if the mist is _him_.

"Wake up," hisses a voice by his feet.

Harry looks down. There are two cats, a black one and a white one, sitting by his feet. Suddenly, as he looks at them, he remembers he has a physical body and he becomes solid once more.

He is completely naked, standing in an empty hall, with two cats. As he looks around, the mist forms into shape. _King's Cross station._

Harry blinks.

"Where_—_"

He remembers his name.

He is Harry Potter, mysterious orphan and recently graduated Hogwarts student. He loves flying and duelling. He will become the world's most famous Auror, so he can help Tom with_—_

Tom... Tom Riddle— where is Tom?

Harry heart hurts.

_He must get back to Tom. Tom... his brother, his best friend, his almost soul-mate. Tom_ _... the boy_ _ who grew up in a muggle orphanage with Harry; who rose to power as the heir of Slytherin with Harry by his side; who protected Harry and was protected in turn; who knew and understood everything about Harry._

Tom. He is with Tom just a moment ago.

Where_— _oh—

_They were heading to a hearing on Grindelwald's British followers. Professor Dumbledore invited them. There was an explosion_ _— _ _bright lights, deafening noise. Tom was standing in front of him, right by the door. Harry threw a shielding charm on his friend, then pushed him out the door. There was no time to say good-bye —_

OH!

There was pain, so much pain. Burning heat, excruciating pain. Then, nothing, blissful emptiness.

"Oh," Harry gasps softly. The realization makes him kneel over with laughter. "I'm dead."

"Yes, you are... I hope you aren't mad, though. By the way, I'm Death_—_" interrupts the black cat rudely; staring up at him with large yellow eyes, voice booming like thunder.

"FUCK," cusses Harry, ignoring the feline by his feet. "FUCKITY FUCK FUCK."

No way... he aced his NEWTs and survived a war, only to die like this. Tom must be so pissed. All their plans, all their discussions, all their ambitions_—_ all for nothing.

"Language, boy," scowls the white cat. Her voice pleasantly faint, like wind rushing past his face.

Harry tries to calm himself, a defeatist air around him.

_Death is just the next great adventure,_ he tells himself. But... he doesn't believe it. Fuck Dumbledore and his Gryffindor ideals. Why is he suddenly agreeing with the light's stupid self-sacrificing ideals?

But he did it to save Tom. So... he regrets nothing.

The white cat meows indigently.

Harry lowers his eyes. He examines her carefully.

"If he is death... Then, what are you? _Life_?"

She licks her paw. "No, silly, life is held within each individual. It doesn't need a corporate entity. I'm Fate."

Harry stares. "You are a bloody cat."

"Cats ruled the Earth, don't you know. Meow."

"Yeah... cats." Harry blinks slowly. "What do Death and Fate want with me?"

"You are dead, Harry Potter."

"...Thanks, kitten obvious."

"We can offer you a second chance, a chance to return to the ones you love_—_"

"... What's the catch?"

The cats exchange a meaningful look.

"Everything has its price, of course," says Death. "You must serve us. For eighteen years."

"Eighteen years!_—_"

"_— is _not too long an exchange for your life."

The two fluffy balls glare at him with unblinking, animalistic pupils.

Harry sighs. Cats! Ridiculously cute... er... he means ridiculously demanding!

"Fine, what must I do?"

The white cat grins at him, a full-on Cheshire cat grin, with rows of unnaturally sharp teeth.

"Are you familiar with the Alternate Universe theory?"

"No..."

"Fine... I'll explain," she winkles her nose. "Ugh, I _hate_ expositions... But here goes_—_"

"So, basically, your world is one of the many universes out there. Some worlds are very similar to the one you know, and some are very different. For example, in some universes, you are a muggle; in others, you are a girl or married to Ginny Weasley or both. At the center of each universe is a unique core— a plot — of which we help to foster and grow. The plot must go on... or worlds will end. We are the forces of the universe. We are here to ensure that the each universe's plot moves according to _their _will."

"...To whose will?"

"Careful," growls the black cat. "Silly mortal children mustn't ask too many questions."

"_— They _are the ones who write," The white cat bumps the black one out of the way and continues her explanation. "You know your boyfriend_— _Thomas, is it?_ — _is rather an important person and _—_"

"_—_Tom is not my boyfriend," grumbles Harry.

She ignores his interruption rather pointedly. "_— _and as I was saying, Thomas is a rather important person in many universes. And your fate — Harry Potter — is intrinsically linked to his... And therefore, you are important to us."

Harry stares at them. _Great, even cats think Tom is more important than him._

"In exchange for an extension of your life, we need you to perpetrate one specific alternate universe. And play a role for eighteen years. Play yourself to keep the plot on its course and we'll reward you."

Harry ponders her offer. So far, it doesn't sound too bad. Eighteen years... He is eighteen years old right now, so what's another eighteen more?

Harry sighs again. Tom is not patient man. Harry wonders if his brother will even remember him by then.

"What happens to the other me in that universe?"

"Good question," the white cat gives her companion a scathing look. "Someone killed him at birth, accidently."

"Hey," the black cat protests weakly. "Babies all look alike."

Harry nods. "And my role is?"

"To help Tom Riddle fulfill his obligation to the plot. Upon arriving in the new world, you will go to Wool's Orphanage and adopt Mr. Riddle. Then, you will stay with him for eighteen years."

Harry brightens up. Hey, that sounds interesting! As children, Tom always got the best of him, perhaps now it's time for some pay back.

"Okay, I will do it, but on one condition," Harry stands up straight, looming over them. "I want to talk to Tom_—_ _my Tom _— and let him know that I'm okay... And I'll be back in eighteen years."

The cats share another meaningful look. They don't look happy.

"That's a deal-breaker."

"Fine," says the black cat reluctantly. "Off you go, then_—_"

Harry thinks about Tom's and his childhood. How terrible it was... then he smiles fondly.

"You seem to be taking this well," they regard him suspiciously.

"I'll do anything to get back to Tom."

Then he is gone, fading into the mist.

* * *

"Anything? Hmm..." The white cat licks her lips. "Good. He'll need his courage and conviction about him._ The plot must go on... or worlds will end._"

The black cat looks worried.

"Maybe we should have told him about _the_ mistake?" he whispers.

"No."

"Maybe we should have consulted Love or Judgement or the rest of them?"

"No."

"Maybe we should have at least _—_"

"Shut up," snaps the white cat. "Just listen to me. I'm your girlfriend. I'm always right."

* * *

Tom Riddle is sitting in a dark corner of the court yard, all by himself, nursing a bruise on his arm. He is five years old. With long eyelashes and soft black hair, he is small, lithe, _weak_.

Yesterday, Chester threw a rock at him, because_—_so he says_—_ he heard Tom speaking to the devil. Tom was not speaking to the devil, but to the snakes around the garden. They told him rain is coming, so he should wear his rain boots for today.

The sun is hot. He is the only one with rain boots. He watches the children play, running, laughing, Chester among them. No one ever asks Tom, "Why are you wearing rain boots?"

Tom Riddle doesn't like to laugh; he doesn't like to play; and he doesn't like fun. So the children dislike him, just as he dislikes them.

FREAK, FREAK, FREAK— they call him.

DEAD, DEAD, DEAD — he names them.

Tom Riddle stares with blank, obsidian eyes, pale skin as cold as ice.

"Pssst, kid, over here" says a voice from above him.

Tom looks up, blinking against the glaring sun. A face is smiling at him, peeking over the Orphanage's fence. It belongs to a young man, about eighteen, with messy black hair and high cheek-bones, grinning from ear to ear like an idiot. His eyes are the brightest shade of green Tom has ever seen.

Tom doesn't recognize him.

"_Sod off_," Tom goes back to staring into nothingness.

"Tom Riddle, do you know a boy named Harry Potter?" asks the man, cheerfully.

Tom looks up again.

"How do you know my name?" demands the boy, a ringing anger behind his words.

"I'll tell you if you tell me who Harry Potter is," The man's smile is disarmingly sincere.

Tom glares at him. He is learning to glare like snakes do, like a predator at its prey. Tom is learning because he wants to scare people. Just to scare them, so they will obey... but, sometimes, a bloodlust will bust forth from his chest...filling his eyes with power. In those times, he _always_ manages to scare them.

And right now, something in those bright, green eyes makes the bloodlust come alive. Tom glares at the stranger, angrily, hungrily.

But the stranger's expression doesn't falter.

Tom frowns. He is five years old. If he can't scare people, he cannot do anything more.

So he answers instead. "There is no child named Harry Potter here."

"But there is _—_" shouts the man. "I'm Harry Potter. Nice to meet you, Tom Riddle."

"I don't care about you," replies Tom. "And how do you know my name_—_"

"_—_Oh, but you should care," the man cuts him off excitedly. "Tom, I'm going to adopt you!"

Tom looks at him sharply.

_Maybe he is crazy_, Tom decides, _like how Mrs. Cole thinks I'm crazy._

"Here," says the man. He jumps over the fence and stands in front of Tom, holding a wooden rod toward him.

Tom regards the wooden stick with suspicion. Suddenly, he jumps back. The stick begins to burst with power. For a second, Tom thinks it will explore, but instead the power condenses into shape. A small, rope-sized snake is emerging from the rod's tip. A power crackles around them.

"What is this?" Tom ogles the wooden appendage. Black eyes alive with desire.

_**"Oh this?" **_answers the man. He lets the snake crawl up his arm, hissing to her gently. _**"This is Nagini, my pet."**_

Tom's eyes grow to the size of saucers.

"And this_—_" the man waves the wooden rod teasingly. "This is _magic_... which involves a long story. Tom, come with me and I will tell you all about it."

Green eyes are glowing with warmth and confidence as the man smiles at Tom. Harry holds out his hand.

_Bet he's bonkers,_ Tom's mind screams. _Can't trust him. Can't trust anyone._

The boy's dark eyes narrow, but he accepts Harry's hand.

* * *

_I forget how cute Tom was,_ Harry thinks as they walk down Main Street, hand-in-hand. _And how rude, too._

Of course, Harry knows magic is the one thing that can pip Tom's interest_. _He let the boy hold the wand as they walk into a hotel, because it seems to calm him. Although Tom's face looks blank, Harry knows that the child is scared. Usually, he can read _his Tom_ pretty well, so dealing with this much younger version shouldn't be hard, right?

In Harry's head, he decides to differentiate them by calling his brother, "my Tom", and this one, "little Tom".

As Harry approaches the receptionist, he suddenly realises that he carried nothing useful on his person. Just ten minutes ago, he landed in this strange world, then he went straight to the Orphanage. He just came back from the dead and traveled across dimensions. He has no plans, he has no money, he has no friends. All he has is his wand and a miniature version of his best friend.

It will take a Gryffindor-level of self-assumed confidence to put this one off...

Harry grins. _Oh, this is going to be fun!_

* * *

Soooooooo, does this chapter make sense?... I can't write stories with actually plot, so expect no plot, and more randomness to come.

Sigh. Cats really do the rule the world, don't they?


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_**parseltongue**_

* * *

**Ten little kittens went out to dine; One choked his little self and then there were Nine.**

* * *

**Year 1:**

One day— the day after his sixth birthday— Tom Riddle has an epiphany.

It happens in an inoculate place, somewhere in the garden of Harry's — _their_ — home. Harry insists on holding a birthday party for Tom. So for the first time in his life, Tom saw things like presents, cakes, confetti and lots of people who want to hug him. Of course, it is all a bit uncomfortable (_Tom is not a touchy feely person, thank you very much_). But he is nice to them, because they give him wonderful gifts —many magic objects and books— all things Tom never dreamed exist.

Tom loves magic so very much. It's beautiful, amazing, _powerful_.

And it's _his_.

It is his nature; it is his birth-right; it is what makes him better than all the other children at the orphanage. It is also his _second_ favourite subject to study.

His _most_ favourite subject to study is his new 'father' — Harry Potter — who has lived with Tom for over half a year... yet who remains a mystery to him. They had moved to a wizarding village outside of Zürich, Switzerland. Somehow, Harry found job as a Seeker for a professional Quidditch team (which is a sport like rugby, but with brooms and flying). And that makes him popular among the villagers. With an easy-going smile and beautiful green eyes, Harry has many friends, yet Tom notices something curious... Harry doesn't have any old friends or relatives, anyone who knew him from childhood.

Curious things are usual suspicious.

Tom is very intelligent for his age. And he knows good things don't just fall out of the sky. He knows everyone has a motive, and he can't feel secure until he discovers Harry's.

Sometimes, he'll watch Harry around the house (which, incidentally, is one of his favourite activities).

Only when they are alone, Harry loosens up and, in those moments, can Tom recognize the power and sophistication that swirl around the man, tainted with something almost dangerous, something like a carefully concealed blade. Tom, who is always drawn to power, knows a man like Harry doesn't just appear out of nowhere... unless he has something to hide.

Something to hide. Something big, important. Something that he doesn't want Tom to know.

Yet, strangely, Tom feels safe around Harry. The man interacts with Tom with ease that no one has managed, as if they've known each other all their lives. The man always smiles at Tom with a mischievous glint, sometimes teasing him by ruffling his hair and sometimes patiently explaining everything that Tom want to know. Tom has an insatiable apatite for knowledge, and Harry is always willing to teach him. Even if sometimes Tom's questions stray into Dark Arts, Harry always answers, without any judgement on his face.

Harry likes to tease Tom, but the man also treats him with an odd level of respect that one doesn't afford to children. Tom doesn't know why, but Harry always tells him the truth, never try to shield him or paint a rosy picture of the world that Tom knows he'll never believe. It is almost as if... Harry understands Tom, his true nature and his abilities, and the fact that Tom hates all those who lie to him.

Thus, it doubly bothers him that Harry refuses to explain his past to Tom. Whenever the topic comes up, Harry always says that he'll tell Tom when the time is right, as he looks at Tom with a sad, wistful smile that made Tom's heart tightens strangely.

The more Harry refuses to talk, the more Tom wants to know. He _needs_ to know.

So he spends long period of his days thinking about Harry, plotting, theorizing, obsessing.

So one day, he is having a conversation with one of his classmate's brother, some stupid eleven-years-old who just started class at Stjärna Academy. And somehow, the boy starts to brag about having relation to Aggon Tellius, a Dark Lord.

Then, it clicks in Tom's head.

_Can Harry be a Dark Lord?_

If Tom is a mysterious wizard with lots of power and knowledge in the dark arts, he would definitely become a Dark Lord. Why not? People respect and obey Dark Lords, don't they? Power and respect—that's all Tom wants in life...Well, that, and to solve the mystery that is Harry Potter.

Tom ignores the boy, who continues to brag, and organizes his thoughts.

First, a Dark Lord must be powerful. Check.

Second, a Dark Lord must be ambitious. Hmmm... not sure about that... But if not for ambition, why does a man as powerful as Harry hides away his true powers? There must be an ulterior motive. Er ... So check.

Third, a Dark Lord needs followers. Check...?

Well, Harry is popular, judging by the amount of fan mail he receives. And Harry is always sneaking out at night, after Tom went to bed... He must've been going to some secret meeting, to recruit followers.

Fourth, a Dark Lord is well versed in the Dark Arts. Check.

Harry is definitely knowledgeable in the Dark Arts. They have a lot of old books hidden in their library that (Tom is sure) are illegal. Also, Tom has read plenty of books that claim Parselmouths to be dark wizards.

Plus, there is this one time... Tom saw Harry enacting a blood ritual — very, very dark magic, indeed— during a midnight of the summer solstice, in their backyard, with two cats, a black one and a white one, by his side.

Fifth, a Dark Lord is able to kill his enemy. Check, check, check.

Harry doesn't know that Tom knows this, but Tom is sure that Harry murdered Mr. Rossi, an annoying reporter who was poking around in their life, unwittingly, uninvited. Then, one day, Mr. Rossi just vanished and afterward, Tom saw Harry burying a body in the backyard. Coincidence?... Tom doesn't believe in coincidences.

Yes, that must be it! His guardian must be a Dark Lord, who's growing his forces in secret, waiting for the day that Tom is powerful enough to join him.

Tom's heart swells with pride as he focused on his theory. Abruptly, his companion stops talking, horrified by the toothy grin appearing on the small child's red lips.

Tom needs more time to observe, to gather evidence. Then, when the time is right, when he becomes powerful enough, Tom'll confront Harry and force the man to accept him as his _equal_.

* * *

Vilhelmina von Olsson thinks she is crushing on Harry Potter. The seeker who lives down the street.

Because he is cute. And _young_, eighteen or nineteen, just two years older than her. And a professional Quidditch player! What girl hasn't crushed on a sport star before?

Of course, she is not shallow, not like the other girls, just chasing after fame and fortune. She likes him because he saved her life! ... Slew a dragon for her. Her white knight in shiny armour... or red uniform (that's his team colour, by the way).

It is all so heroic! He wielding his wand like Excalibur, she pressing against his broad chest, as he banishes the beast while whispering soothing words into her ears. So romantic. All her friends envy her experience.

Also, she thinks he must be a Light Lord.

Vilhelmina von Olsson is the only daughter of Lady Evetivina von Olsson, the Swiss media tycoon, who's very well-connected and who knows everyone's secret. Even Harry Potter can't hide his secret from her mother. Although the young man always carried a mysterious air about him, which is part of his appeal, ("branding", her mother calls it).

He has an elegant demeanour; beneath his friendly outlook, there lies a powerful charm that spoke of being pure-born... But he denials relation to the Potter family of Britain, even though he speaks with an unmistakeable English accent. After a while, after prolonged nagging on Vilhelmina's part, her mother finally invites him over for dinner. There, they begin to unravel him... to estimate his ability, to judge if he's worthy the attention of an Olsson girl.

After dinner, her mother calls up Vilhelmina to her chambers.

"What an interesting young man that you have set your eyes on," says her mother.

"Yes, yes. Tell me more," nods Vilhelmina eagerly.

Evetivina stands up. Tall, with eagle-like eyes and a formable figure, she is the complete opposite of her daughter.

"He knows how to play the game," she informs her daughter. "Someone of his age, able to verbally spar with me without revealing anything, is certainly impressive. I'm afraid I haven't found out much— I'll have to send Rossi to investigate him."

Vilhelmina looks disappointed. If her mother doesn't know Harry's secret, then no one knows.

Evetivina continues, "—However, there are clues. He lives in an old mansion, with a house-elf, yet he proclaims to be muggle-born. _Impossible!_"

Vilhelmina nods eagerly.

"I did a little digging. The house belongs to the Peverell family; it is their Swiss retreat. Peverells are a very old British family, you know, probably descendant of Godric Gryffindor himself. But, one day, the Peverell heir just vanished. Proof. Gone."

"And ?— " Vilhelmina is riveted.

"Some says he died, gone mad with love for a dead woman. Some says he hid away, because a prophecy foretold a Light Lord being born to the Peverell family, a wizard so powerful that he will bring glory to Wizarding Britain, but who will also bring danger to all those around him —"

"He's a Light Lord!" She squeals with delight. _A Light Lord, just like a hero in the stories. _"How exciting!"

"Now, darling, I did not say that—"

But Vilhelmina ran out of the room already. She wants to share the news with her friends, as soon as possible.

Yes, her love is a Light Lord, she decides, skipping happily. A Light Lord is definitely appropriate dating material for a Lady. Now mother can't object to her going off to stalk— she means visit— him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_**parseltongue**_

_flashback_

* * *

**Ten little kittens went out to dine; One choked his little self and then there were Nine.**

* * *

**Year 1:**

Harry Potter stares at the pile of letters on his living room table, wanting to stab someone.

Who the bloody fuck started the rumour that he's a Peverell and a Light Lord_? A fucking Light Lord?!_ He's a Slytherin, thank you very much. He may be born a light wizard, but soon he fell in love with the power of the Dark Arts (mostly due to Tom's influence)... Well, he never looked back since.

Now, the Swiss and British Ministries are interested in him... plus a whole shrew of other pure-blood families. All these invitations, functions, and letters of subtle inquiries are piling up on his desk.

Harry had won this house from an old vampire in a card game. He looked at the map and remembered Switzerland as a beautiful country that is smart enough to stay out of both wizarding and muggle wars. So he moved here on a whim, looking for peace and quiet. He isn't expecting so much baggage from a _house_.

Harry deals with pure-blood often enough that he should've remembered that one's address is a status symbol too.

Harry really, really wants to stab someone through the heart.

See, in this new world, the one thing that Harry wants is to be left alone! He just wants to enjoy life! He just lived through a war, _death_. He is eighteen, interested in booze, sex and partying.

He is free. He should go have some fun.

This world is not his own, so he doesn't have any obligation to it. Except for his responsibility to little Tom, who is a very independent and intelligent child, so Harry doesn't worry about him that much.

...Although sometimes it hurts to notice how much little Tom reminds him of _his Tom_. They are very similar. Same face, same dark powers, same endless ambitions, same silent resolute... and same ineffable charm. Just the same, familiar and unique Tom Riddle-ness.

Of course, Harry still misses home. But having little Tom around is a small mercy, the child is so adorable, even with his questions of dark magic and power moves. For one, he gets to hug little Tom whenever he wants. His Tom used to deck Harry whenever Harry gloms onto him, before giving up as Harry was a very persistent child. For another, for once he is smarter than Tom. It is very rewarding to watch those familiar ebony eyes light up— almost worshiping with eagerness— as Harry explains spell-works or magic theory.

Harry will miss the boy when he leaves. He promised his Tom to never lie to him, so he'll extend the same courtesy to little Tom. Eighteen years is a long time... and he is sure that, by the end, little Tom won't need him anymore. Or so he hopes.

Anyways, Switzerland is not as peaceful as Harry has hoped.

In just half a year, three interesting things happened while he lives here.

* * *

_First, Fate and Death came to visit him during summer solstices._

_They came to fulfill their promise of letting Harry speak to Tom. They brought the Mirror of Erised, and set-up an elaborate blood ritual around the mirror, which allowed Harry to communicate with Tom for five minutes._

_Five minutes felt like an eternity, also, like a blink of an eye._

_They stared at each other, through the mirror's reflection. Green eyes inspecting dark eyes, tracing the familiar handsome face, the same composed expression. Tom's lips tightened as Harry smiled brightly at him._

_For a moment, neither knew what to say._

_"How... how are you?" asked Harry finally. He reached up to touch Tom's image, feeling cold glasses beneath soft fingers._

_"You insolent little —" murmured Tom, his face expressionless, but Harry could tell he is livid. "Don't you ever try that again—"_

_"What? Saving your life?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "Forever and always. I'll do it a thousand times more."_

_Tom pinched his nose, let out a long suffering sigh, then all the anger seemed to bleed out of his eyes._

_"You nitwit, you—" next second, Tom slumped against the mirror. "—Harry, is... is that really you?"_

_"Yeah, who else could it be?" Harry grinned, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the mirror. Against Tom. "You prat, shouldn't you be happier? I expect a 'thank you', you know."_

_Tom's fingers trembled against him._

_"Never! You expect me to thank you for leaving me?! Never... You know I'm not the forgiving type, Harry...Even toward death. I hate death!... If you are dead, then you are nothing, just fading memories with no responsibilities. And it's the living who will have to deal with the consequences."_

_Harry's smile turned sad, wistful._

_"I know... I'm sorry. I didn't have time to think— my body just reacted... You're meant for greater things than I — Tom —and I had to—"_

_Harry realized his voice started to shake. But he didn't want to cry in front of Tom._

_"Listen, we only have a five minutes—" then, Harry quickly explained the situation to Tom, gesturing toward the black and white cats behind him._

_For a while, Tom just listened, dark, moody eyes glued to Harry's face._

_"Death... Fate...Eighteen years," repeated Tom. Then he abruptly changed the topic, "How are you anyways?"_

_Harry raised an eyebrow._

_"Really? That's what you want to know? I just told you there are alternate universes...Er... I'm good, I guess. Started to play professional Quidditch, moved to Switzerland, adopted mini you... And you, Tom?"_

_"Fine, started working at the Ministry. Got promoted twice already—"_

_Of course, Harry rolled his eyes. He smiled despite the sorrow expanding in his heart. It was so hard to say good-bye, especially for the second time._

_Tom continued to stare at him with hungry eyes, drinking in every detail. His face turned serious._

_"Harry— I killed them. The ones who hurt you... every last one of them."_

_"Sorry that I've missed it," Harry grinned, now this sounds more like the Tom he knows._

_Tom shrugged._

_"It wasn't that interesting. I was too angry to be creative. They are not important, anyways. Harry, just... just come back to me."_

_"Awww, sounds like someone misses me."_

_"Of course I do."_

_Tom's quiet honesty surprised Harry. Green eyes snapped up, shinny and gleaming with tears._

_His hand pressed against the mirror. Harry whispered, "Wait for me, Tom. I promise I'll always return to you... Brothers, forever and always."_

_Tom's pressed his palm against Harry's. Harry could almost feel the other's warmth seeping though the cold glass._

_"Brothers, forever and always," replied Tom, then he hesitated. "Harry, there is something I been meaning to tell you —"_

_But, suddenly, the mirror shimmered, then Tom was gone._

_"TOM! — TOM! —" screamed Harry. Harry rounded toward two creatures, who watched them with indifferent eyes. "BRING HIM BACK!"_

_The cats looked at him. Tears wetting his face, Harry raised his wand threateningly toward them._

_The cats meowed, then disappeared._

_Afterward, Fate and Death never visited him again. Harry kept the Mirror of Erised. He delved further and further into Dark Arts, determined to find a way to repeat the blood ritual._

* * *

Harry has a big garden. His house is on the outskirt of the village, a large, old mansion against the Alps.

Harry grows many things in his garden, many illegal, colourful herbs, not because he likes to garden, but because he needs them for research. Sometimes, his herbs attract interesting wildlife.

This is the second interesting thing that happened to Harry.

* * *

_He slew a dragon... sort of._

_Well, not really._

_One day, Harry heard a scream coming from his garden. He ran out and came face-to-face with a mammoth Swiss Tremplehorn, with yellow-scaled skin and clawed wings that blotted out the sun. Its roar boomed like thunder._

_There was a girl cowering in the shrubs, screaming. Her terrified eyes met his, then she promptly fainted._

_The dragon roared, breathing fire into the sky._

_Harry cursed. He got ready to apparate, when suddenly the dragon wobbled and toppled over._

_Harry stared at the house-sized creature in front of him. It didn't move, its yellow scales glittering like a pile of gold._

_It turned out that the dragon ate some of his Nightshade berries (actually, the beast swallowed the whole tree) and died of blood-poisoning. Harry took credit for slewing the beast; because he wanted to sell its body for parts... Hey, he needed the money._

_Then, of course, the dragon-slewing became a national story._

_It won him a lot of groupies._

* * *

Lastly, there is the story of the body buried in the backyard.

It's a real body. It belongs to a reporter, an annoying tabloid hack, Mr. Rossi, who was rudely badgering Harry about his past. Well, now, Mr. Rossi won't be badgering anyone, anymore.

* * *

_But Harry didn't murder him._

_Well, not exactly._

_See, it happened the day that Mr. Rossi came over for dinner._

_They were in the middle of their halibut dish, when Mr. Rossi proposed to Harry, politely, that he knew that Harry's birth certificate is fake and Harry should pay him for his silence._

_"That sounds awfully like blackmail," Harry swirled his wine glass._

_"More like an fair exchange," replied Mr. Rossi, sweating a little under Harry's scrutiny. "A reporter's salary doesn't pay for much, I'm afraid."_

_"No," Harry raised an eyebrow. "But I suppose your late wife's estate does—"_

_Mr. Rossi spluttered, almost chocking on a piece of fish._

_"Careful," Harry gave the man a toothy grin. He set down his wine glass. "You don't want to choke to death during dinner, do you? ...Not like your poor wife, if I recall correctly? A woman like her, from a good, rich family, dying so prematurely... How unfortunate."_

_Harry reached over and gave the man's wine glass a gentle tab. If Mr. Rossi looked terrified before, now his entire face had gone as ashen as the tablecloth._

_Amateur, Harry rolled his eyes. If you are planning murder, best make sure to become a damn good actor while you are at it. _

_"You know how I would kill off a dinner guest, Mr. Rossi? A drop of poison in the wine, colourless, tasteless. Maybe Draught of Living Death? No... Much too common. I know—Potassium Cyanide— a Muggle poison, hard for magic to detect. Clever, don't you think, Mr. Rossi?... More wine?"_

_The man stood up suddenly, upsetting his glass. The wine spilled over, red like blood on white tablecloth._

_"I... I don't know what you are insinuating, Mr. Potter—"_

_Harry stood up too. With one hand, he pressed Mr. Rossi back into his seat. The thin, balding man gave no resistance, as he stared at Harry with wide eyes._

_"Oh, I think you know exactly what I'm insinuating," said Harry pleasantly. "You know what? I might even know your poor wife's father, Mr. Rossi. From a German pure-blood family, isn't he? He's quite high-up in Grindelwald's court. Don't you think such a respectable man deserves to know the truth about his daughter's murder?"_

_The man trembled like a little mouse facing a hungry viper._

_Harry grinned. He wasn't joking when he said he wanted to become the world's best Auror. He was a good detective. It didn't take him long to track down the black-market dealer, who sold Potassium Cyanide to Mr. Rossi... and the rest was easy deduction._

_He could kill the man easily... but whatever that can be said for Mr. Rossi, the man was resourceful... And Harry could use some information about this new world._

_"Now that we understand each other, Mr. Rossi," Harry continued, voice suddenly cold and demanding, like the way Tom toyed with his foes. "Shall we continue the discussion of our exchange?"_

_Harry snapped his fingers. Midi the house-elf appeared and set deserts on the table, two perfectly round crème brûlée._

_Mr. Rossi continued to stare at Harry, mouth opening and closing feebly. Finally, the tall man slumped with resignation, and picked up his spoon._

_Harry rewarded him with a sinister smile. Smart choice, Mr. Rossi._

_Information is asset. And Harry could use a reporter in his service, for a while anyways. Now, finally, he could find out who was investigating him._

_Then, suddenly, Mr. Rossi clutched his throat. He stumbled and fell over, threshing on the floor, mouth foaming._

_Quickly, he was dead._

_Harry inspected the body, noting the flushed skin, red hives, and swollen face and lips. Severe allergic reaction._

_Harry narrowed his eyes._

_"Midi," he snapped his fingers. The house-elf reappeared, bowing. "Explain."_

_The scrawny creature looked down at the dead body, a complete innocent expression on its wrinkled face._

_"Mr. Guest told Midi that he is allergic to peanuts. So Midi put peanuts into Mr. Guest's desert and swiped the Epinephrine Potion from his pocket. Mr. Guest is rude to master. Midi doesn't like that... He is snooping in Master's room, when master is not looking... So rude, so rude."_

_The house-elf's face showed no trace of remorse. It just looked at Harry with large reverent eyes, bowing every few second. It turned out that Midi was a much better actor than Mr. Rossi._

_Harry sighed._

_Great, just his luck, win a free house from a vampire and it came with a homicidal house-elf._

_"Now, Midi," Harry chided gently. "Next time, consult with me BEFORE you murder someone, okay?"_

_"Yes, yes, master," nodded Midi, as it began to clear the table._

_For a moment, they stared at the body on the floor. The dead man's eyes remained open, swollen and wide with disbelief._

_Then, Midi piped up, "Master, the garden!... The Purpleglory plant needs human blood as fertilizer..."_

_"Hmm, good point," considered Harry. "Bring me a knife, Midi."_

* * *

In the end, Harry never found out who sent Mr. Rossi after him.

He supposes it doesn't matter anymore. Now, with the rumour of him being a Peverell, everyone is investigating him. He needs to be more careful.

He probably shouldn't sneak out late at night to go partying at muggle Zürich anymore.

With a flicker of his wand, Harry sets the pile of letters on fire.

Forget the Ministry. Forget Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Forget the manipulations, back-stabbings, and war games.

Harry should just do what _he wants_.

This is not his world. He doesn't have any obligation to it.

He only has three goals _—_one, to give little Tom an interesting childhood; two, to get back to his Tom; and three, to have some fun while he's at it.

_Have some fun. Live a little._ And, so far, in that aspect, he has failed.

Harry frowns. He'll just have to try harder! Party harder, drink more, and flirt with more beautiful women (and men).

Eighteen years is a long time. He should just treat it like a vacation.

_An eighteen years long vacation._

Sigh, he already misses Tom.

* * *

- Based on JKR's HP series and _And Then There Were None_ by Agatha Christie

OMG, let me rage for a bit. Why can't I write crack anymore?! If I'm not funny anymore, I'm nothing... (Sobs uncontrollably)

Help me out a little_—_ if you remember any cliché about Harry-grows-up-with-Tom, Harry-adopts-Tom or Voldemort-wins stories _—_leave a cliché in the review. I'm going to see if I can write 'em into some jokes next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_**parseltongue**_

_inner monologue_

* * *

**Nine little kittens sat up very late; One overslept himself and then there were Eight.**

* * *

**Year 2-5:**

Tom Riddle's favourite colour is red. The colour of desire, the colour of liquid life coursing through closed veins, the colour of fear and passion and powerful thoughts. The colour of dark, ominous dreams that sometimes crawls into his head as he sleeps.

Sometimes, he dreams of the orphanage—muggle children laughing at him, screaming hateful things; matrons appraising him with fearful eyes, whispering of his dead whore-mother; priests pressing his head into a bucket of water, chanting with righteous condemnation, "_devil, be gone_", over and over again as cold liquid rushes into his windpipe...

As ghosts of the past hunt his dreams, more of the redness bleeds into his eyes, filling his young mind.

Though, the redness is never sad.

The redness never feels sympathy or compassion for anyone, not even for himself. It only feels anger — a simple enough emotion, but when aggregated over a long time, one that can grow into a seething, violent force of nature, uncontrollable and untameable like an erupting volcano.

Of course, Tom doesn't erupt for them. The muggles are now worthless to him. Miserable, pitiful beings who are constrained by the nature of their own birth, limited by the laws of physics. They are maggots; he is magic. He shouldn't concern himself with their matters anymore.

How long can one stay mad at a bunch of maggots, anyways? It isn't logical.

So, Tom will not dignify them by saying they give him nightmares, because they do not... No, really, Tom doesn't have nightmare. Nightmares aren't real. They're products of children's overwrought imaginations... and Tom is too smart to fall for such childish things. His dreams are of memories, fading memories that he never forgets and that he never forgives.

_Red dreams. Dull memories._

Sometimes, when he dreams of red — he dreams of revenge. There are flashes of spells, a sea of blood, bodies by his feet, and screaming and begging and oh, so much screaming. Then, when he wakes up, he feels cold and emotionless, almost like... if he isn't angry, he is empty. He is nothing at all. If a person is devoid of all positive emotions, is he devoid of humanity as well?

Maybe he is just not worthy of happiness. _The empty child. The orphan. Nothingness._

Tom knows that he is not normal. He reads in the books that he might be what they labelled as 'sociopath'. _Whatever_. Tom doesn't mind the books calling him a 'sociopath', because the books said some Dark Lords are sociopaths too. So, at least, he is not alone.

Sometimes, when he wakes up, he sees green.

A pair of emerald eyes peering at him with concern. A face smiling at him from behind round glasses. A gentle hand touching his forehead, its pressure soothing and reassuring, warm with magic.

_Green_.

The colour of seedlings poking out of the snow, the colour of rain drops on new fields, the colour of the ocean under direct sunlight. It is the colour of peace and confidence and life.

Green is invading his dreams, fading and surging with red tides. It is a colour opposed to red, but it is also the same... It is the colour of precious gems and sharp glass, the colour of the Avada Kedavra, the colour of _power _itself_._

In those moments, when _he_ is present, all Tom sees is green.

And green, somehow, makes Tom's heart beat a thousand times fast. Green makes something inside Tom comes alive, rising hot and rapidly like summer winds. Green makes him feel new emotions that he doesn't even know exist. It seizes him and fills his mind with something strange and strong that he cannot identify. Something red and green and... wonderful.

As Tom leans into the man's warm touch, he feels safe. But also, he feels a little ashamed to appear so weak and helpless in front of someone so strong. Tom hates weaknesses. He wonders if Harry feels the same.

He wonders about Harry's weaknesses... If the man even has any, that is.

He bets Dark Lords are not afraid of anything.

He bets Harry is not afraid of anything. If Tom grows more powerful, then maybe... one day he'll become a man like Harry. Then maybe— just maybe — one day he can influence Harry as much as Harry influences him.

Tom wonders about Harry's dreams. He bets Dark Lords don't dream about childish things like red or green or —

"Hey, how are you, kiddo?" grins Harry, as he kneels down next to Tom's bed. "Sorry to wake you, but you looked like you were having a bad dream."

Tom opens his eyes slowly. Green eyes hovering over him, like bright stars in the darkness. Instinctively, Tom shoots up in bed, eyes bleary but he immediately focuses on Harry. The young man looks exactly the same as the day they met. Dishevelled black hair and ugly round glasses, he is full of youth and mischievous energy, forever eighteen... _strangely_. Tom blinks, trying to tear his gaze from mesmerizing green. Harry's hair's a bit damp, so Tom deduces that he must've just gotten home from a Quidditch game.

"Tom?" Harry's palm presses against his forehead, checking his temperature. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm _fine_," replies Tom defensively, feeling his face flush against warm skin. "I'm... It's just... I'm just cold!"

Harry laughs, a wonderful, honest sound. "Yes, I suppose Midi is trying to save money by skimming out on firewood again... I'll talk to him, I promise."

Tom glares at him suspiciously.

Harry laughs again. Suddenly, he sits down and wraps his arms around Tom. Tom tenses. Harry smells like winter night's cold air, and like charcoal and shampoo. Tom deduces the man must've stepped out of the floo network recently. _An away game, then_. Harry's laughter still ringing in his ears, familiar and melodic, Tom relaxes.

"I'm not a kid," grumbles Tom, nevertheless he leans into the other's warmth. Horribly clingy. "I don't need you to comfort me."

"Of course, you are ten years old, definitely not a kid," chuckles Harry. "I'm not trying to comfort you. I... er... I feel cold too. Your bed is warm, so let me stay for a bit? Please?"

Harry's breath tickles against his ear. Tom feels his face burn, and suddenly he doesn't remember what being cold feels like.

"Fine—" Tom pretends he is reluctant, but he burrows his head into Harry's soft, cotton shirt. Harry smells like the great outdoors and starry skys. Tom can imagine him soaring into the air on the Nimbus, utterly fearless and free, and _uncatchable,_ unlike Tom who is always stuck to the ground."—But I'll kill you if you drip sweat on my bed."

"Don't worry, I showered. No sweat."

They stay together in comfortable silence, leaning into each other's warmth. Tom's small arms wrapping around Harry's chest, and Harry's chin resting on his soft hair. Sometimes, Tom likes to pretend that moments like this last forever.

But Tom is smart enough to know that nothing lasts forever.

No one loves you forever. Everyone leaves.

_Even Harry._

Suddenly, the silence is not so comfortable anymore. It is suffocating. Tom bites his lips, so hard that it bleeds into his mouth, blood staining Harry's shirt. _Red like lipstick_. Tom likes the taste of blood, although he doesn't like physical pain. He likes blood. It is red.

Tom is smart, too smart. The silence always gives him time to think. Although right now, he doesn't want to think, so he begins to talk, rapidly firing questions at his guardian.

"So... where was your match today?"

"Milan, Italy."

"Did you win?"

"Of course, 450 to 370."

"I heard of Milan, it has buildings left over from Rome, right? Something called Colony di — di —"

"— Colonne di San Lorenzo. Yes, Milan is a very beautiful city. I should take you to visit sometimes."

"I read in _Die Prophezeiung_ that some muggles were attacked there. Ten muggles?...Or was it twenty?"

"... Just ten. Gruesome business, for sure. But it's normally a very safe city, I assume you."

"I read that they were under the _crucio_ for a long time. No one knows who or why or how... I read that everyone's panicking. Harry, who do you think has done it?"

"Some budding Dark Lord—"

As Harry talks, Tom thinks. He always thinks, every second of every day, too much, over-thinking everything. A lonely voice monologuing in his head:

_Oh, a Dark Lord! How interesting. I know for a fact that the papers didn't mention anything about Dark Lords... but, of course, you would know things that no one else knows._

_Tell me, tell me all your secrets. Tell me you are the Dark Lord and I promise to protect your secret with my life._

"A Dark Lord?...Who? Why?"

"An impulsive gentleman from Germany, who believes in something called blood-purity... I believe his party wants to send a message to his rivals. Those muggles are no more than a convenience for spreading their ideology. Poor saps are just unfortunate to be caught in a war between a Dark Lord from Germany and a Light Lord from Britain. Aye, just wizards and their blood-purity... and silly wars."

_From Germany?... Then, you didn't do it?_ _I've been watching you, Harry, tracking your activities, collecting articles on Dark Lords. I must commend you for being so good at your job, because I barely found anything._ _And I've been watching you, very closely. Thinking about you too, every second of every day._

_I already know that you are a Dark Lord — I know about the things you are hiding from me._

_Why aren't you telling me the truth, Harry? It makes me angry that you don't trust me. Perhaps today is the day, which I'll finally confront you._

_You know, I've always wanted to confront you, ever since I figured out your secret. But... I can't... I just can't, because I'm scared that you don't need me. A Dark Lord doesn't need a silly little boy like me, does he? Not in the way that I need you. You have your money, your status, and your power. But I, Tom Riddle, am nothing without you._

_Nothing. An orphan. The insignificant child._

"But... we are better than muggles, aren't we?"

"Better?— That's hard to say— We are different, more powerful individually... But they outnumber us greatly and there is power in numbers. So I understand why some wizards are concerned about them, but that is not my ideology."

"Ideology?"

"Yes, every great man needs an ideology, something for his followers to cling onto_._ An idea is always more powerful than one person. Great leaders wield the right ideas like we wizards wield our wands. That's why Dark Lords fail more often than not, because they never draft a complete ideology. Instead, they rush into battles, overconfident in their own powers, without seeing the big picture. They always want to rule by fear, forgetting that power must be legitimatized with the right ideology before crowning and celebrations."

_If every great man has his ideology, what's yours? And... am I... am I in your plans?_

"If you are a Dark Lord, Harry, what would you do?"

"If I'm a Dark Lord—" Harry peers at Tom curiously. There is a prolonged silence. Green eyes gleam mischievously, beautiful with unspoken secrets.

_Yes, yes, tell me. Tell me the truth. Tell me. TELL ME._

"If I'm a Dark Lord, I'll probably quit tomorrow. Too much work is needed to conquer or to rule the world... Too troublesome. It isn't my kind of life."

Tom frowns. "I don't understand... Is it because Dark Lords are bad? Because they are evil?"

_NO, no, no. Admit the truth. No more coy suggestions, please, Harry. Tell me the truth and I'll follow you to the end of world._

_Lie to me and I'll never trust you again._

Harry looks back at him, green-eyes piercing, as if he can read Tom's thoughts.

"Evil, no. Tom... I think Dark Lords are just overly ambitious wizards who understand the beauty of Dark Arts. Ambition is good. I like to think I'm ambitious myself. Ambition is what propels people to greatness. One day, I hope you will find the ambition that speaks to you. And I trust you will find it, Tom, because I believe you are meant for greatness... And when you do find it— that burning, all-consuming desire — my child, don't be afraid to go after it."

_Greatness. Harry said I'll be great. Greatness and ambitions. Burning, all-consuming desires. Red is the colour of all desires._

_I am the redness. I want the world. I want _—

_Green._

Tom focuses his attention on Harry's green eyes. _How can someone so gentle and kind be a Dark Lord?_

"Greatness... Me? But I'm just an ordinary orphan, with the most boring name— Tom Riddle — it's not even a pureblood name."

Harry's arms tighten around him. The man says, "Harry Potter is a boring name too. Ah, but we are not merely defined by our names. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Besides, I love the name _Tom Riddle_. Life is a puzzle and _Tom_ is Tom. _Extraordinary_. You know, I once knew a boy named Tom. He was an orphan, just like you; he was smart and cunning and powerful, just like you; and he was ambitious, just like you. And he was the most brilliant and extraordinary wizard I ever known."

"He is...was my best friend. We grew up together as brothers, then we were rivals, then we were everything to each other. But... now he is gone... Tom— "

Something in Harry's tone catchs Tom' attention. Despite the man's soothing voice, there is a deep longing buried deep in his words, a wound that is briefly exposed to the world. Harry's voice shook with a weakness that is so unlike him...Perhaps that is Harry's weakness. Harry never speaks of his childhood, perhaps the other Tom is the reason why.

For some reason, that idea bothers Tom. The angry thought of someone else controlling Harry's heart gnaws at Tom's mind.

"Tell me more about the other Tom—" demands the boy, trembling with childish jealousy. "Where is he now?"

"He is... not of this world."

"I'm so sorry," whispers Tom, but he isn't sorry. He is glad, in secret though, because Harry mustn't know. "He must've been very important to you."

"Oh, yes, he was a smug bastard— but I can admit that he means the world to me."

_Means?... Don't you mean meant?_

_Green is the colour of memories, fading in and out of one's mind, with tendrils of emotions impossible to grasp. Green is for death_—_the death curse_—_but green is also for life_—_spring's sprouts._

Tom feels wet droplets hitting his cheeks. He catches it with his tongue— it tastes bitter and salty. He looks up and sees green-eyes simmering behind a sheet of glossy tears, like lake water on a calm, windless summer day.

_Impossible! Dark Lords don't cry! And his Harry can't be crying over someone else... Someone dead, but so similar to Tom. Is Tom just a memory?_

_Or am I just your replacement? Is that why you chose me that day at the Orphanage, because I remind you of him?_

_The red comes roaring back. It burns so angry; it overwhelms the green._

_I am not—_

"But that bastard isn't here. In this world, Tom, _you_—" Tom feels a hand pressing reassuringly on his shoulder "— you are the one who means the world to me. I'm very grateful that you are here with me, right now, Tom Riddle, the little boy with the cool name and an extraordinary future."

Tom digs his fingers into Harry's arms. He looks up; Harry smiles back encouragingly with bright green eyes.

_The red recedes._

_I'm being silly._ _The dead cannot compete with the living. Jealousy is so childish._

_Jealousy is tainted with red anger. Jealousy is full of green envy._

Tom breathes. He grabs Harry's hands, warm skins and pulses that are strong and living. Just like Tom's own.

"I'm NOT little!" But Tom relaxes as Harry's arms wrap around him once again. He begs, "Harry, tell me more about the other Tom."

Harry smiles at him and obliges.

As Harry serenades him with stories of childhood games and pranks and a place called Hogwarts, Tom thinks about his future.

_I am meant for greatness, Harry said so._

_No matter what Harry says, I know he is a Dark Lord... Even if he might be an unconventional one, one that doesn't want to conquer the world for his own. Although conquering does sound nice, doesn't it? Ambition is hungry, red and insatiable. Maybe if Harry is too lazy to conquer the world, I'll do it for him._

_Who is qualified to stand beside a Dark Lord as his equal?_

_A Light Lord? No. The memories of a long-dead friend? No._

_The only equal for a great king is another lord of the same calibre. A Dark Lord can only be matched with another Dark Lord, someone who is just as ambitious and who is just as formidable._

Tom decides, right there and then, that he needs to become a Dark Lord himself, to become someone with enough power to match Harry's. Someone significant enough to wipe away the memories of the other — the unimportant — Tom.

There is only one Tom. Himself, the future king of... of something.

Red is for rubies gleaming on the crown. Green is for fireflies saved in a jar.

Harry's eyes are the most remarkable shade of green that Tom has ever seen. Green is vivid, bewitching, beautiful, and captivating. It is like precious gems, ones that must be kept secret and that must be protected by red, fire-breathing dragons.

The red will make him powerful. _But_, Tom thinks, _maybe green is my favourite colour._

Yes, one day, Tom will become a great Dark Lord. And people everywhere will know his name. They'll whisper their names with reverence, with trembling lips — Tom Riddle and Harry Potter — the greatest wizards who ever lived.

_Red and Green. The orphan and the lord. Nothingness and greatness._

_Tom Riddle and Harry Potter._

And then, together they'll unify the wizarding race, and then— and then—

Ok, Tom hasn't thought out his complete ideology yet.

All he knows is that he wants to keep Harry by his side, forever and ever and ever.

Even though, Tom is smart enough to know _nothing _last forever.

* * *

Harry Potter thinks it's very hard to be a father. And it's damn near impossible to be a _good_ father.

And really, how is he expected to know anything? He never had a father figure in his life. All he ever had is Tom, and, as brilliant as the man is, it'll be a stretch to call Tom Riddle a good role model for anyone. Harry has no idea what to do with a child, even one as mature and respectful as Tom. But he's a fast learner and a good actor (all good Slytherins are), so Harry settled into family life quite comfortably.

He has the vaguest idea that parents are suppose to love their children unconditionally.

So that's a place to start.

And, really, little Tom is easy to love. He know every parent thinks this, but Harry thinks he really has gotten the best little boy in the world.

Little Tom is brilliant and thoughtful; he always gets the best grades in school and he always says the right things. Little Tom is popular and beloved by everyone; he is charming and courteous and even a little manipulative (he'll make a fine Slytherin, one day). And little Tom loves his adopted father (at least, Harry hopes so); he tends to look up at Harry with clear black eyes, wide with filial adoration. Little Tom even lets Harry hug him whenever he wants. Harry doesn't remember _his_ Tom being this cute when they were younger.

The boy is so very adorable. (*So cute!* Harry squeals in delight... Of course not, he's not some silly, fifteen-year-old girl. *Scowls*)

See, his son is the best!

Of course, Harry is under no delusion that little Tom is an angel. In term of personality, little Tom is very similar to _his_ Tom, full of dark ambitions and bloodlust. But Harry is not too bothered by such thoughts. Eventually, his Tom had found an outlet in life that he could properly exercise his nature and became great. Harry is sure that one day, little Tom will find the same. And Harry will be there to help him, every step of the way... (Well, at least for the next thirteen years.)

Harry never thought violence is necessarily evil, anyways. It's a sword, a tool; it's all about how you use it and why. Blood is spilled throughout every step of history; every great man, like Caesar or Napoleon, always ascends over bodies and opposition. To war is human nature. Ambition is too. And, unfortunately, sacrifice is an essential part of progress.

Harry is never an idealist person. He is a pragmatist.

He'll do whatever it takes to help Tom reach his potential. After all, little Tom is the only reason he is in this world.

As they sit on Tom's soft bed, Harry holding the little boy in his arms, he tells Tom many funny stories about Hogwarts. The boy just listens, quietly and content.

Strangely, lately, little Tom has been asking him about Dark Lords a lot. Harry wonders if the boy has heard things about Grindelwald, who, at the moment, is still just another politician with pure-blood ideals. But, to those well-connected wizards, they can see a war is coming. Light or dark. All have to pick a side soon.

(Harry thinks Tom might have picked up clues from his conversation with Lady Evetivina. They have been visiting her a lot... She is a smart woman, a spider with wealth of information. Harry is glad to have such a powerful friend.)

Harry thinks he should warn Tom about Grindelwald and Dumbledore... Or maybe he ought to show the boy how to take advantage of the upcoming war. (Assuming things happen at similar rate to his world, then, technically, Harry knows the future.)

Still, Harry must tread carefully. One, he doesn't want to get involved in the war. And, with the rumours of him being the Peverell Light Lord, he doubt Dumbledore will leave him alone.

Two, he doesn't want Tom to think he is prejudiced against Dark Lords. He remembers _his_ Tom's schemes as Lord Voldemort. If little Tom decides to go down the same route, then Harry wants to be there for him.

Ugh, being a parent is hard-work! Harry is not good at this sentimental thing. He'd rather go out to duel and to kill his enemies.

Fighting is easy. Living is much, much harder.

After a while, when Harry thinks Tom has fallen asleep, quietly, he gets up to leave.

Suddenly, a small hand reaches out to grab his sleeves. Tom's eyes shoot open, clear black pupils meet surprised green ones.

"If I was the other Tom, I would _never_ leave you, Harry," mumbles the boy, half-asleep with droopy eyelids.

Harry smiles sadly, as he tucks a blanket beneath Tom's chin. "I don't think it was his choice."

"I don't care...I'll stay with you forever... Will you stay with me forever, Harry?"

Harry's eyes widen. He hesitates, but he can't tell Tom the truth.

"Tom, I can't... I can't promise you that. Everything has to come to an end. Everyone dies in the end."

Black eyes look up at him, steely with unreadable emotions.

"I DON'T care about death or whatever... I just want to stay with you forever. Promise me?" whines the child loudly, looking so very young at the moment.

But Harry can't promise him, because he already made a promise to the other Tom.

Harry leans in and presses a kiss on little Tom's forehead. He shuts the lights.

"Go to sleep, my child."

As Harry tip-toes out of the room, Tom watches him until the door slams shut. Tom stares into the darkness, unmoving like a statue, unable to fall asleep as disappointment fills his head.

Harry thinks the conversation went well.

See, his son is so adorable! And brilliantly perceptive...

Suddenly, Harry is worried that he is not good enough for Tom. Maybe some of his co-workers are right; maybe he should find Tom a maternal influence. Someone who can better untangle a child's emotions.

Some may say Harry is too lenient in his parenting style. They say parenting is all about discipline, about creating guidelines for children who has no sense of right or wrong.

Harry thinks they have no sense of right or wrong either. A boy like Tom is one with limitless potential. Harry doesn't want to clip his wings before he has a chance to soar.

Not that Harry knows what to do either... He is just trying his best.

Be supportive, be loving, be active in encouraging your children's dreams.

Basic parenting 101.

Er... and that's enough...right?

Harry does love his son very much. He will support Tom in whatever the boy decides to do, whether the boy wants to conquer the world or conquer nothing.

Harry will be there for him.

* * *

When Tom sleeps, he still dreams of red, but a red that is more content, vigorous and potent. It's all about perspective, he supposes. He has the vaguest dreams of the future, a world where he rules over all things, a world where he finally knows Harry's secretes. He dreams of red with swirls of green. Sometimes, in his dreams, he hears screams and people chanting his name; sometimes, he hears the sound of birds singing, a little emerald bird trapped in a silver cage, singing praises that only he can hear.

He can't wait to grow up. He can't wait to make all his dreams come true.

When Harry sleeps, he dreams of home_—_ his old friends, his old apartment and _his_ Tom. But, mostly, he doesn't dream, he is too busy living, rising a child on his own and becoming _bloody_ rich and famous. Fuck yeah. Life is too busy for dreams.

Dreams are never meant to come true anyways.

* * *

**Game of Thrones edition:**

(Minor spoiler alert. Spoiler to the end of ASOS.)

1)

Tom: Will you stay with me forever, Harry?

Harry: Valar Morghulis, Tom. Valar Morghulis.

Tom: ?

2)

Harry: And then... the Starks died, the Lannisters died, and the Baratheons died. All those who want to become king ALL died. So you see, I don't want to sit on the Iron Throne. Being a king is too risky, too troublesome. If I'm a Dark Lord, I'll be the one who controls the world from the shadows, playing people like puppets on strings. I'll be more like Tywin, or Varys, or Littlefinger. After all, the schemers are the real winners in life.

Tom: Yeah, but Tywin is_—_

Harry: Ah-ba-ba-ba _—_NO SPOILERS!

Tom: Well, the season finale came out already_—_

Harry: NO SPOILERS! Merlin's beard! Is there even one place on the Internet where people don't spoil Games of Thrones?

Tom: Okay, okay... (Whispers) LSH.

Harry: AHHHHHHHHHHH! (Runs away crying.)

Tom smirks.

Tom flips open a book. He checks off a box.

On the book's first page, in thick black text:

Title: _How to become a generic archetype of evil Dark Lords: a beginner's guild for young aspiring sociopaths_

Step 1) Be evil

Step 2) Spoil Game of Thrones for EVERYONE!

Step 3) Read _American Psycho_

... etc

* * *

Holy shit! This chapter went on way too long. I don't even...

P.s. If any reader speaks German, could you please think of a German Quidditch team name? I need one for Harry's team. Maybe something that's similar to the canon names (i.e. Holyhead Harpies) or a pun on football clubs (i.e. Hogsmeade United), but in German, of course.

P.p.s Thank you so much for reviews! It helps me to judge my work. 'Cause humour is so subjective and I just don't know if I'm funny or not...


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_**parseltongue**_

* * *

**Nine little kittens sat up very late; One overslept himself and then there were Eight.**

* * *

**Year 2-5:**

Mary Sue Galadriel Black Malfoy Gridirth Moira Sherlock Watson Magicname thinks she is a lucky girl. Very lucky, indeed.

She is lucky that she is falling in love.

Ah, love, romance— the smell of roses blooming in the garden, the sound of hearts pounding like drums, the touch of _his_ strong hands massaging her dainty feet. (Yes, _feet_... Mary Sue has a feet fetish. So what about it, no one's perfect, okay?)

Hem, hem. Sorry.

Ah, love, it is the most precious and perfect thing in the entire world.

Mary Sue falls in love quite often. She is lucky that they always love her back. Romance after romance fills her life, colouring her world with passion and sweet words, almost as if she is the heroine of a Jane Austen novel. (Or a du Maurier novel or a Nicholas Sparks novel or a Julia Quinn novel.)

(Wait, isn't this the 1930s?)

Mary Sue thinks she is just an ordinary girl, but her life has always been special.

She has honey-brown eyes and thick golden hair. She's small in statue, but slender and feisty. (By the way, please don't call her short, the PC term is vertically challenged). She thinks her features are very plain, but she has always gotten compliments on her beautiful face and gorgeous body.

Oh, and boys are always fighting over her. But Mary Sue doesn't understand why— because she thinks that she is just like everyone else, an average young woman just like you and I. She's so ordinary that she is constantly the center of attention everywhere she goes. Everybody loves her, especially rich, handsome purebloods with dark and mysterious pasts.

Did she mention that they are always very handsome?... Just like her new boss, Harry Potter, who is a sport star _and_ a rich pureblood with a mysterious past. Sun-kissed skin and tortured green-eyes. He's totally her type. She is even prepared to become a mother figure for his young adopted son, a poor little muggleborn orphan named Tom Riddle.

The child is certainly very cute. He always looks at her with large, pleading eyes that melt her good-natured heart. He seems very shy, a little distant and cold, always holding onto his father's hand tightly. Perhaps he was abused by the muggles. _Awww_, poor thing, she is sure she can help him with some hugs and kisses. Love always fixes everything.

People always loved Mary Sue, she is certain Harry Potter and Tom Riddle will be no exception.

Anyways, she hopes Tom will like her, because she is going to become his new governess.

Now, you asks, why is someone as amazing as Mary Sue acting as a governess?

Well, the answer is simple. She wants to stay close to Harry, her new love.

It was love at first sight, their eyes found each other from across the crowds at the Ministry's Ball. Angels sung, clouds parted, his bright green eyes spoke to her. It has been a while since she felt her heart come alive with yearning. (It has been three months, to be exact.)

Then, she found out more about him. How he is charming and popular, (he is a part of Lady Evetivina's prestigious social circle) but there is an underlining darkness inside him, which only she can see. How he is full of stories, (he is rumoured to be a Light Lord from the Peverell family) which she is eager to discover. And how he lives with only a young son in an old Victorian mansion in the countryside of Switzerland.

Mysterious, with a dash of danger. A passionate gentleman with a dark secret, who lives in a gloomy, gothic mansion and are looking for a governess.

_How alike Jane Eyre! _Mary Sue has yet to become a Charlotte Brontë heroine. So she jumped at the chance to teach young Tom Riddle and soon, she is sure, she will get her happy ending.

Mary Sue's porcelain skin flushes as she thinks of her love.

Now, don't look at Mary Sue's loveliness and claims she has an easy life. (Please, no haters welcome). In fact, she has a dark, tragic past of her own.

You see, her father was Lord Azkaban of Gondor and her mother was Queen Elsa of Westeros, but tragedy struck as they were both murdered when she was— blah blah blah blah blah — and thus, even though Mary Sue was crowned the Twlight Princess of FantasyLand, she cannot return home. However, Mary Sue only grew stronger in face of tragedy. She remains spirited and pure of heart, untainted by the cruel world, like first snow on the moors.

Nothing can defeat her. She is Mary Sue.

Oh, did she mention that her mother was a Dark-Elf? Yeah, and it's totally cool, because her elf-lineage turns her eyes purple during the night. (Why does elf-DNA results in purple eyes? Well, Mary Sue doesn't know... She's not a geneticist.)

Also, did she mention that she has a brother?... A brother who is half-vampire and half-dark elf, although Mary Sue never speaks of him anymore, because she hates people who sparkle more than her. Not that she is jealous or anything, she's too kind-hearted to become jealous, okay?

Tomorrow, she will start her new job at the Peverell Manor. She is so excited!

She can almost taste the romance in the air, bitter and sweet like the finest chocolate.

Mary Sue is a proper young lady. Mary Sue never makes the first move in love or war.

She never needs to.

All she needs to do is to bat her eyelashes, and Mr. Potter will surely fall in love with her.

_Instantly_. Like all men tend to do.

* * *

Tom Riddle really hates his new governess.

She has only been here for two months and she has already managed to dig her claws into Harry.

There's something _wrong_ with her. She carries a suspicious air that makes all the men around her proximity turn into idiots. As they come close to her, their eyes gloss-over like they are drunk and they fight for her attention, even though all she ever did is giggling stupidly and talking only about herself. Honestly, Tom doesn't see anything special about her, but other people do. _Even Harry._

It makes him angry to see Harry laughing as she utters some stupid, pseudo-defiant words. It makes him angry to see those green eyes drawn toward her for no apparent reason. Still, compared to most men, Harry seemed to be handling her well, so Tom wasn't too worried. Until one day, through the slit of a half-opened door, he saw them kissing by the fire-place. Harry's red lips pressed against her pale face; his hands rested against the curve of her back.

That image makes Tom seethe with rage. Redness consumes his mind, clouds his vision.

Tom turns and runs from them.

_How is this even possible?_ Harry is normally so cautious and guarded that no way he could have fallen for a stranger in such a short time. Tom knows that adults say that love is blind. But... but... _Miss Mary Sue?!_ Love must be brain-dead as well as blind, with no concerns for the natural progression of human relationships.

Tom hates love. So very, very much.

He suspects she had dosed Harry with something. _A love potion,_ maybe. But the symptoms don't match, and whatever Mary Sue had done feels even more insidious. It isn't dark magic exactly, but to play with another's heart — so carelessly, so easily — she is just as dangerous as any Dark Lords out there.

Nothing about her makes any sense. _At all_. Yet, Tom is the only one to see it.

Whatever she had done, Tom hopes it's not permanent. If Tom's the only sane one here, then Tom must act soon. He must get rid of her. He'll kill her if he has to... The image of Harry's lips against her flashes in Tom's mind. Something roars in his chest. He feels an urge, chuckling in the back of his mind, _kill, kill_—

He is going to become a Dark Lord. Therefore, murder is a part of the job description.

Tom sits in the kitchen, eyes gloomy as he watches Midi move around the stoves and chopping board, throwing colourful vegetables into pots.

"Midi," murmurs the child. "Have you ever hated someone so much that you want to kill them?"

"No, young master," answers Midi, as he caresses each root vegetable with great tenderness. "Midi doesn't hate people. Midi serves people. Midi only wants to help master and young master. If Midi ever gets rid of someone, it is because he is threatening master or young master. Midi never does things for his own sake. Midi is only helping his masters take out the trash. Does young master have some trash to get rid off? Midi can help—"

"Yes, _trash_...But I want to do it myself. Thank you for the offer though, Midi."

"Oh, oh. If young master needs suggestion on the best ways to hide a body. Midi knows some tricks... Master Potter's garden needs more fertilizer, Midi is glad to receive some bodies."

Tom looks into the house-elf's innocent, shiny eyes. _Oh, Midi is quite interesting_. He should come down here to talk to him more often.

Midi waves his willowy limbs, gesturing wildly.

"Why is young master sad? It makes Midi sad to see young master sad. Okay! Midi will fix young master a smoothie. Smoothie makes everyone happy—"

Tom doubts that a smoothie can help him feel better. Unless the smoothie manages to strangle Miss Mary Sue in her sleep... or poison her the moment she wakes up. Wait a minute... this gives him an idea.

"Why does Harry like kissing," Tom murmurs to himself. "It feels gross and wet when the girls at school tried to kiss me—"

_**"Kissing? Hassss young hatchling found his mate?"**_ says a rough hissing voice behind them.

"_**Hello, Nagini**_," greets Tom, without turning his head. _**"I'm not talking about myself. But about Harry and Miss Mary."**_

Nagini has grown a lot since Tom first saw her. She is now over one meter long, with thick green-black scales and powerful bulging muscles. She is an absolutely stunning creature, if not a little vain, judging by her constant need to have Harry and Tom compliment her.

_**"Ah, that horrible woman. She smells like lies and toilet cleanser. I hope Harry is not planning on mating with her."**_

_**"Mating?"**_

_**"Yes, males and females making eggs, hatchlings, babies, whatever they are called these days."**_

_**"Babies?"**_ Tom pales. _If Harry has his own children, will he still want Tom? Is that what Miss Mary Sue's planning? __**—**__To get rid of Tom and to keep Harry all to herself? _Now, it all makes sense! Tom's nails dig into his palms. He bites his trembling lips.

_**"How are**_ _**babies made, Nagini?**_" asks Tom softly, angry darkness simmering behind his eyes.

_**"I'm glad you asked. I was a nymph once, you know. In my days, I had a lot of malessss— humans and snakes alike — I can explain everything to you, little hatchling. You ssseee, when a male and female—"**_

Suddenly, Midi starts to chop fruits viciously, so loud that Tom cannot hear her hisses. _Bang. Chop, chop, chop._

_**"—And the male climbs on top of her—"**_

Midi turns on the blender. It whines and roars loudly, mechanical noises drowning out Nagini's words.

_**"—and then he thrust into —"**_

_Whizz, whizz, whirl. Buzzzz. Ssssss._

Finally, Nagini had enough. She shoots forward, quick as lighting, as she wraps her thick body around Midi, constricting like a silent bear trap.

_**"—Quiet, you overgrown rat. I'm trying to educate hatchling, here. "**_

But since Midi doesn't understand parseltongue, he can't reply. Instead, the two creatures begin fighting, tumbling on the floor, rolling across the kitchen in a giant ball of green scales and grey skins.

Tom is not paying attention to them. His heart is pounding in his chest. He thinks about Harry making babies with Miss Mary Sue, and the thought makes him sick. (In the vaguest term, of course, Nagini's explanation isn't helpful. Like at all.)

It makes him angry. His magic flares dangerously whenever he's angry.

Harry is _his_... No woman or babies will take the man away from him. And pity those fools who try...

Tom turns toward Midi, all tangled up with Nagini on the floor.

"Midi, do we keep poison in the house?"

Midi's face brightens up instantly. He pulls himself from the viper, then walks up to Tom.

"Oh yes, young master, we do. Many, many selections. Let me show you to the Potions pantry_**—**_"

* * *

Haha, now this is becoming a Harry!Harem story. Sorry, Tom, you are too young for the romantic plotline for now.

This chapter is mostly humour. This story is meant as parody, so I'll be making fun of all kind of clichés. But, personally, as a reader, I don't mind some clichés, as long as it's written well. I feel like, in term of storytelling concepts, there's nothing new under the sun. It's all about execution and characterization and consistency and imagination.

So, in a weird way, I respect clichés. And... I forgot the point of this author's note.

The next chapter should be up by Sunday. Cheers. Please leave a review.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

**Nine little kittens sat up very late; One overslept himself and then there were Eight.**

* * *

**Year 2-5:**

Mary Sue feels great in the morning. She feels great in the evening too. She feels great everyday.

Everything is wonderful when you are in love.

Ah, love — the feeling of eternal happiness, the feeling of warmness inside that grows and expands until you feel invincible, the feeling of being so high on happiness that you are floating among the stars and you are never coming down.

And for Mary Sue, that feeling of happiness _never_ fades.

Now, some people—especially poets and songwriters — will say that love is happiness _and_ heartaches. Love, they insists, is also the feeling of swallowing broken glass, the feeling of ice frosting over your heart, the feeling of cutting open yourself and baring your soul to another person, revealing all of yourself in its most devastatingly vulnerable state, as naked and weak as a newborn.

Mary Sue disagrees with all of them. She thinks they doth protest too much.

From the day that she was born, the world revolves around her, tilting around her desires and proceeding according to her plans. It is almost like she is the center of the universe, the sun and moon of everyone's eyes. Even though Mary Sue insists that she has only led the ordinary life of an average girl. _Right_! She means— always getting what you want—isn't that the average human experience?

She has never experienced heartbreak or failure; she has never needed to adjust her goals; she never has to compromise.

Once in a while, some of her friends will comment that Mary Sue lived an impossible life. They say that a life without any bumps or troubles — a perfect life— is not possible, that it is inauthentic or lack in humanity or whatever.

But she thinks they are all wrong. They are just jealous of her...Now, as she thinks about it, she can't even recall what they look like.

Oh well, they don't matter anyways. Right now, her infatuation — oops, she means true love — is the only one who matters.

Mary Sue never tries to over-think things. She feels, she achieves, she doesn't need to think.

She just falls in and out of love fluidly, drifting through life on a cloud of bubbly champagne and rose pedals, always getting what she wants. Actually, now she is thinking about it— her life does seem a little convenient, maybe even contrived— _Nah_, Mary Sue's life is epitomized by perfection, so why would she never question perfection? Perfection doesn't need judgement; it doesn't need introspections; it doesn't need poetry or philosophy or enlightenment. _It just is_... A state of mind. Total bliss.

You are perfect or you are nothing.

And Mary Sue knows she is perfect.

And today is just the perfect day to enjoy her perfect life. Currently, she is sitting in a little Persian Bistro, in middle of a quaint Swiss wizarding town — Saint Malorine — enjoying an espresso with her young charge by her side. She is even dressed perfectly for the moment. She is decked out in an expensive black-and-gold Kimono, with intricate designs of peonies and orchids running up her legs and clutching onto her bosoms. The dress has been in her family for ten generations. Its blood-red sash is made from luxurious mulberry silk, with hand-beading of Burmese rubies and ancient Chinese jades— _ten paragraphs later_ — lastly, she completes the look with rainbow-coloured lipstick and living Monarch butterflies pin into her hair.

(Of course, you may ask... why does a little blonde girl have such a 'traditional' Kimono as a family heirloom? Well, now, that's a long story — blah, blah, blah...another ten paragraphs later— Use your imagination, it's a great story, okay?)

Mary Sue inspects Tom Riddle lovingly. She is sure that the boy loves her, even if he won't admit it... He has to, because she will soon become his new mommy. Yesterday, Harry kissed her for the first time. _Warm lips, firm hands. Love. _She sighs contently. She can almost hear the wedding bells in the distance.

"Tom, how would you feel if I and Harry form a family for you?"

The boy looks up sharply. His large, beautiful eyes regard her with an intensity that she is not used to — oh look, he is _so_ happy!

"For me? You mean for _you_— "

"No, my sweet boy, for you. I'm sure you want a mother in your life, someone to sing lullaby as you sleep, someone to hold you as you cry —"She falters as his ebony eyes staring into her. Nevertheless, she presses on, rattling all the familial clichés she had heard. "— Someone to love you as you deserve."

"I'm ten years old. I do not need lullabies. And I do not need a mother, especially not YOU."

She smiles understandingly. Of course, some resistance is expected. Children never know what they want.

"Oh, You poor things... I understand the idea of a family must seem so alien to you... given your circumstances. A muggle orphanage? How horrid! I presume that they abused you?... That must be why you act so gloomy and rough. You are guarded because you have been hurt before. _Damaged_ by past experience... But don't worry. You are safe with me, dear boy. You are safe with Harry and me and— "

The boy stares at her, dumbfounded. She smiles encouragingly. Shock always comes before clarity. Yes, of course, he is surprised that she is so kind to him and that her insight is so accurate. A boy like him is not hard to figure out. _The abused children_. They always try to act tough on the outside, snarling like wolf cubs; but, on the inside, they are actually sweet and innocent like puppies. She knows how to heal children like this. You must persist.

Love is all they need.

Tom takes in a sharp breath. "_Harry_ talked to you about _me_?"

Mary Sue frowns. As soon as Harry is mentioned, something flashes across the child's face, something dark and vicious, something which twists the boy's pretty face with an emotion that she can't identify. His outburst is so strong that it almost scared her. With something that is definitely _not_ perfect.

This ... this is not going according to her plan. Shouldn't this moment be when he breaks down crying with her comforting him?

"No," admits Mary Sue. "Harry doesn't talk that much. But I'm smart, so I inferred—"

The boy is shaking like a leaf. She peers at him with concern.

"You've known Harry and me for about two months. And yet, you dare to presume so much. So, tell me, Miss Mary, what is Harry to you? Beside being rich and a Quidditch star. Tell me something _real_. Tell me the names of his parents, tell me his future plans, tell me the truth —"

"None of that matter," she answers confidently. "Only love matters."

The boy bristles, indignant by her dismissal. "Ok, ok. _Love_. Then let me say this plainly — so even your pea-brain can comprehend— I bloody well HATE you. If you marry Harry, I swear on my mother's grave that I will _kill_ you."

Awww, he's so cute. Look at him trying to speak like an adult, as if a child like him could know what love is... He is shy and stubborn and difficult and childish. He is just resisting the inevitable change.

_He hates her?_

_Nonsense_, nobody hates Mary Sue. That is just impossible.

The child is just in denial. Such happiness must be unfamiliar and scary to a poor little orphan like him. But he'll come around soon.

Mary Sue smiled sweetly at Tom Riddle, sipping on her coffee contently.

_What a perfect little boy for her picture perfect future-family! _

* * *

With increasing horror, Tom Riddle realizes the truth— Miss Mary is utterly, undoubtedly insane! Her total lack of self-awareness is appalling. Her deficiency in logic and listening skills is an insult to humanity itself.

Really, if Tom isn't so enraged right now, he might even be impressed. _What kind of life experience could've created a creature such as this?_

This woman is utterly delusional. He feels like he is talking to a brick wall. Tom's eyes turn dark with murderous rage as she talked and talked. A small vial of Draught of Living Death remains hidden in his pockets, hard glass feels cool against his skin. Alright, if reasoning won't work, Tom still has the back-up plan — it is his preferred plan anyways.

Tom's ebony eyes follow Miss Mary's retrieving form as she excused herself to go to the washroom.

Now, it is his chance. He is aware that she'll probably spend at least half-a-hour in the loo, fixing her make-up or whatnot.

Tom takes out the Draught of Living Death. Midi's words ringing in his head_: remember, young master, three drops for a good-night sleep; ten drops for the eternal sleep._

He is about to pour the potion into her coffee, when an unfamiliar, gravelly voice interrupts him. _"Ah, ah, ah_. I wouldn't do that if I were you. Mary Sues are invulnerable... They cannot be killed by simple poisons. "

Tom whips around. An unassuming old woman is standing behind him, looking over his shoulder in very close proximity, yet Tom has never heard her approaching footsteps.

Her pale-blue eyes meet his alarmed expression. Then, she smiles, a kindly, harmless, grandmotherly smile.

"My name is Cassandra Trelawney. Pleasure to meet you, boy... I'm the messenger for cats. I'm the giver of expositions. I'm seer of the future, the past, and the not-present. I have been send here to give you advice, young Tom Riddle, for the universe needs you to behave intelligently, to keep the plot churning. You listen to me, and you listen good, for I am your wise-old-man archetype."

Tom stares. Finally, he settles on, "wise-old-man archetype?"

She bristles. "What? Were you expecting a wobbly old man with long silver beard and a white tunic, perhaps someone who looks like a living embodiment of a marble bust of Aristotle? Ahem, WERE YOU?! Women can be wise too! I've got the white hair, don't I?"

Tom stares. He puts down the vial. _Great, another crazy person, as if he doesn't have enough problems already._

"Who send you? And how do you know my name?" demands Tom.

She waves a dismissive hand. "I told you already. The cats send me. But that doesn't matter right now... Right now, boy, you _listen_ to me. Put down the poison. You cannot defeat a Mary Sue... yet. Mary Sues are born with plot armours and reality distortion force-fields. They cannot be harmed easily. All those who go against them must beware or—"

"_Or what_?" challenges Tom. He uncorks the vial. "How are you going to stop me? Report me to the Aurors?"

"_No_, I'll not stop you. We can only give advice. We do not interfere."

The old woman looks down at him with stern disproval. Suddenly, her expression reminds him of the matrons at the orphanage and he likes her even less.

"Good," nods Tom. He pours some poison into Miss Mary's coffee, and then stuffs the vial back into his pocket. "Go away then—"

Suddenly, something sharp and painful pinches the back of his neck. Coldness surges through him and Tom's eyes rolled back in their sockets. Everything went black.

The last thing he remembers is the old woman's thrilling voice, berating him with indignant pedant.

"_See_! I've told you that Mary Sues are untouchable. _Children_! — they never listen."

* * *

When Tom came to, he discovers that he has been kidnapped.

That's right. _Kidnapped_. In broad day-light, in the middle of a busy coffee shop, amidst a major Swiss community.

_What the bloody hell?_ Maybe that old woman was telling the truth. Next time, before he takes on Miss Mary again, Tom needs to research plot armours and reality distortion force-fields... First thing after he escapes, of course.

Currently, Tom is not in a good place, tied-up, gagged, and tossed in a corner with three grown men guarding him. Tom's face is bloodied. Right after Tom woke from the effects of the sedative, he said some colourful things to his kidnappers, and they beat him and gagged him. He probably needs to learn to control his tempers better.

Tom slumps against the wall; his ribcage throbs painfully where they kicked him.

Absentmindedly, Tom thinks about Harry. He wonders if Harry knows he is missing. He wonders if Harry is mad at Miss Mary for losing track of him.

_He hopes so._

One of the kidnappers— the stupid, hulking one— looms over Tom. He sips on his coffee and taunts the boy.

"Not so clever now, are we?" he spits at Tom. "Just wait. After your rich daddy pays up, I'm gonna rip your throat out— fucking rich brat— Why don't you share your fucking opinion on _that_?"

Tom's muffled reply, "Mmmphhsm."

"What's that? I can't hear you." The man grins madly and downs his drink in one gulp.

Suddenly, the bulky man crashes to the floor, completely motionless like fallen timber. The other two— equally stupid and hulking— kidnappers stand up in shock, before they too promptly fall to the floor. Their coffee mugs shatter into a million pieces on the concrete, steaming, black fluid pooling around them.

Tom stands up, the ropes slipping off him easily, loosened by his magic. He smirks, all pretence of the terrified little boy vanished as he looms over the dead men. He pulls the rag from his mouth and tosses it on the dead bodies casually. He picks up a wand, swirling the wooden stick between his childish fingers playfully.

Finally, Tom answers the dead man, red-lips curling upward, "_I said_ — you are going to die."

* * *

_Ten minutes ago:_

_Repeatedly, the portly, bearded kidnapper kicked Tom, relentless and furious as the boy refused to beg for mercy. Tom curled into himself, as the man's boots bit into his flesh. Tom clamped down his lips, hard, until it bled, but at least he successfully stifled his screams of pain. Tom would not scream. He would not beg. Dark Lords never beg. _

_Something rolled out of his pocket. The man picked it up. It was an expensive-looking, small vial, no bigger than his thick thumb._

_"What's this?"_

_Tom didn't answer._

_He kicked the boy in the stomach again. _

_"What is this?"_

_Tom spitted out blood._

_"Put it down. That IS expensive. It's not for vulgar piss-artist like you. It is SUPER expensive. A vial of fresh Madagascar vanilla extract. It's for coffee and drinks, for people with actual good taste_—_"_

_"Oh yeah? Just watch me,' said the man, as he emptied the vial's content into a coffee pot. He shook the pot mockingly. "Oh, look, high-class, fancy-ass coffee, for me and my little friends. Oooooh, Madagascar vanilla, never had that before_—_"_

_Tom said nothing. In his mind, he sneered at their stupidity._

_No one could be that stupid! _

_But then the kidnappers poured the coffee and drank it all. _

* * *

Tom smirks as he inspects the dead bodies, whose eyes are closed peacefully, then Tom frowns. He can't believe _these_ idiots managed to kidnap him!

_Seriously. What the BLOODY hell?! _Tom is so embarrassed, but he doesn't have time to relax.

He hears some banging and shouting coming from the hall outside the closed door. The rest of the kidnapping gang must've returned. When he first woke up, Tom paid close attention and he counted nine kidnappers. Six of the men left a while ago, but right now Tom can hear their approaching footsteps. (Tom also successfully deduced that the kidnappers are never planning on letting him go safely, because they wore no masks and Tom saw their faces).

Tom's heart beats wildly in his chest. Adrenaline pumps through his veins.

_Three down. Six more to go. _

Tom looks around the barren room. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. His childish fingers tighten around the dead man's wand. He'll have to fight. _To kill._ To save himself, because no one is coming to save him.

Tom flattens himself against the wall, hiding strategically behind the door. The wand poised toward the opening door, the stunning spell on the tip of his tongue.

Tom is ready to fight for his life. He will not die here. He has great plans — he will become a Dark Lord and rule the world with Harry by his side. Tom has many great plans, so he knows his end is not here, not now, because, in the end, he is meant for greatness. _Harry said so. _

For reasons unknown to him, as Tom's muscles tense for battle, the one thing he remembers is that he had forgotten to say good-bye to Harry that morning.

* * *

Didn't I warn you guys the plot's really weird? Yeah, it's super weird.

Thanks to _**laughingmad, **_for suggesting that fangirls think Tom is "a totally-innocent misunderstood kid not responsible for any of his actions". I know this is not exactly what you suggested, but you still inspired me. And thanks to **Banananna**, for the rainbow-coloured lipstick.

New chapter should be up by tomorrow. It'll wrap up part two of this story. There's ten parts — one for each line of the poem.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_**parseltongue**_

* * *

**Nine little kittens sat up very late; One overslept himself and then there were Eight.**

* * *

**Year 2-5:**

"TOM!"

Suddenly, Tom is swept up into firm arms and a tight embrace. He blinks in shock; the wand in his hand slips away and clunks onto the floor. A familiar face peers at him, pale lips trembling with elation and relief, as the man presses a kiss to Tom's cheek, feathery breath against cold skin.

"Harry?" murmurs Tom, not believing his own eyes.

The boy's heart beats wildly as he recognized his saviour. He slumps against the man's chest with relief. As the adrenaline subsides, Tom's small body is aching all over, but none of that matters now—

_Harry has come for him!_

Tom presses his face into the nap of Harry's neck, as the familiar scent of the man's aftershave reassured him. Harry smells like blood and sweat, but he also smells like sweet herbs in their garden. _He smells like home._ Slowly, the child exhales, and his rampaging magic tampers down. The emerald-eyed young man lifts Tom up as he inspects the boy's face carefully.

"_TOM_... Thank Merlin you're alright. I was so worried," Harry's voice sounds rushed and raspy against his ears.

As Tom remains still in Harry's arms, father and son wordlessly inspect each other's battle-worn forms. Harry's robe is tattered with mud and cuts, his hair as messy as ever, but he looks uninjured otherwise. Their faces are so close to each other that Tom can count Harry's eyelashes, long dark fans framing concerned forest-green.

_Green is the colour of safe-to-pass. Green is the colour of summer ivies climbing up their mansion's stone walls. Green is the colour of home._

_Yes, Tom has a home to return to. He has someone who to look after him, who to worry about him, and who will always come to save him._

Tom smiles. Harry sighs with relief.

"Are you hurt?" asks Harry quietly.

"Not permanently."

Wrapping his arms around Harry's neck, Tom notices, by peeking over Harry's shoulders, Midi and Nagini passing through the door, with six immobile bodies floating behind them like detached, stationary balloons. Harry ruffles his hair, and pats his back soothingly.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. Had a bit of trouble tracking those bastards... Tom, I... I promise you that I'll get to the bottom of this. And I'll make them pay—every last of one of them."

As Harry rambles on angrily, Tom remains passive, leaning into Harry's protective embrace. He wonders if he ought to protest. If he ought to protest about being cocooned in Harry's arms like a child, like he's a coddled, defenceless, _precious_ child. After all, Tom is going to become a Dark Lord. Dark Lords do not cling onto their fathers like little monkeys. Dark Lords do not need to be rescued; they do not need rescuers peering at them with exquisite green eyes.

But also, Tom wants to lie in those arms forever, as Harry's magic crackling around him, protecting him from the world. _Maybe sometimes, even Dark Lords need help,_ he excuses himself. _Maybe even_ _Dark Lords needs someone they can trust._

_Ah, but trust always leads to betrayal_, his mind warns him_._

_Not Harry,_ Tom argues in his head. _Harry will never betray me... As I will never betray him._

"Harry...you smell nice," before he realizes, the words slip from Tom's lips. Tom's face flushes as he presses his face into Harry's robe.

Harry halts in surprise, then he laughs, "Really?! I think I smell terrible —all sweaty and dusty."

Finally, Harry sets Tom down. Tom feels cold and lost without the warmness of the other's skin, but he doesn't protest. He picks up the dead man's wand and stuffs it into his pocket. Harry inspects the room. He looks curiously at the three dead bodies in the middle of the floor.

"Did you kill them?" He turns toward Tom.

Tom nods impassively, face turning completely blank. Harry's eyes narrow. For a moment, Tom's muscles tenses and he opens his mouth to explain.

Harry beams at him. "I'm so _proud_. Three full-grown, armed wizards! Wow, my little Tom is pretty amazing!"

Tom relaxes. "I'm NOT little," he murmurs, but secretly he is very pleased.

Harry smiles indulgently, then his face turns serious.

"So... what happened?"

Then, a brilliant idea comes to Tom.

Tom looks to the floor. Shaking with embarrassment, Tom sniffles as chocking sobs escape his lips. He buries his head into his hands, sobbing loudly but not a single tear is forming behind his eyes.

"I'm... I'm so sorry. Harry, I didn't... I didn't mean to run out of the Cafe like that... But Miss Mary... Miss Mary said you don't want me anymore. She said you two are going to get married and have children of your own. And I should just _go away_ — go to wherever orphans go — because she and her children will inherit everything, because they'll be your blood, your real family... And she said that I'm just—"

Tom peeks at Harry furtively, from behind trembling fingers. Hopefully, he isn't overdoing it_._ Harry stares back at him, seemingly frozen in place, expression unreadable. So Tom sobs even louder.

"— That I'm just a leech dragging you down—"

Suddenly, Harry closes the space between them and Tom is wrapped in comforting embrace once more.

Tom buries his head in Harry's robe, hiding his completely dry eyes, red lips curling upward in triumph.

"That despicable woman —" fumes Harry as his arms tighten around Tom. "Tom, I would never do that! _Never_... By Salazer's name, I swear to you that you are my only family and you mean more to me than the world. I just thought— I just thought you would like a mother figure in your life... and Miss Magicname seemed like a suitable candidate at first... But clearly I misjudged her."

"Really?" Tom mumbles into Harry's robe. "But... But I _hate_ her."

Harry nods. "She's gone."

Tom grins. _Those kidnappers... maybe they aren't so bad after all._

Tom's small arms clasp around Harry's waist possessively, as he presses his ears against Harry's chest, listening to the other's heartbeat. Tom has grown a lot since his time at the Orphanage, so now he reaches Harry's chest. Soon, though, he'll be tall enough to look the man in the eye, face-to-face as equals. _Tom can't wait._

"Oh, and Harry... I don't need a mother figure. You are all I need. I just want to stay with you... Just the two of us, a family forever— "

Behind them, Nagini hisses and the grey house-elf coughs. Tom looks at them quickly.

"— With Nagini and Midi as well."

Harry nods again. "Ok. In that case, I promise you, Tom. I will not get married. You are my child. You are my _only_ family. And it'll just be the two of us — together —"

_Oh, really, it is that easy? I'm such a good liar,_ Tom thinks proudly. _I should've tried this earlier._

"Together forever?" asks Tom eagerly. His bright onyx eyes look up at Harry, full of hope and happiness.

Harry hesitates. Then, avoiding Tom's eyes, he answers finally.

" Together... for as long as I can— "

* * *

Tom stares at the closed door, where Harry has disappeared behind just a moment ago, dragging the leader of the gang with him. Harry has only stunned the six men he caught, so he can interrogate them to find out the reason behind Tom's kidnapping.

Tom remains still as statues, as screams drift out from behind the closed door. Harry has come for him. Harry has saved him, yet... Harry continues to refuse to trust Tom with his secrets.

Harry never lies to him... at least not directly. But no matter how much Tom begs, Harry never tells him the whole truth either. Tom is Harry's only family, yet he remains clueless about Harry's past. The man is still a mystery to Tom. Perhaps it's just the nature of Dark Lords to be secretive, but Tom can't stand being shunned like this...

Secrets are never meant to remain secrets forever. One day, Tom will find out all of Harry's secrets. He'll force it out of Harry if he has to, even if —

Suddenly, his thoughts are interrupted by a shrilling yell.

"WATCH OUT— YOUNG MASTER —"

From somewhere, Midi whips out a long butcher knife. The skinny creature charges forward, silvery blade raised above his head as he leaps onto one of the fallen bodies. Methodically, Midi starts hacking at the man's neck. Blood dripping as he gashed madly. The red liquid crawls along the floor, bright and alarming, but it is also cold and unresponsive, because the man is already dead.

He is one of the three that Tom had killed.

"Ummmm... Midi, what are you doing?" asks Tom.

Midi wipes the knife on his potato sack. He is covered with blood from head-to-toe, but it seems to not faze him at all.

"Midi saw him move. He could be dangerous."

"Ummmm... Midi, I don't think he moved. He was already dead."

Midi stares at him, floppy ears loping over, seemly dejected. "Oh! Well... maybe Midi made a mistake. Bad Midi. Midi has gotten blood on young master's shoes. Bad Midi. Bad, bad Midi."

Absentmindedly, Tom wonders where the elf had kept the knife, hopefully not down the potato sack he's wearing as trousers. Also, he sincerely hopes that this steel shall never see the kitchen again.

He tries to comfort the distressed creature. "It's okay, Midi. I mean you can never be too careful... Even stunning spells may not hold sometimes—"

Suddenly, Midi perks up, round eyes shiny and eager.

"Great insight, young master. Young master is so brilliant! _Right_, Midi needs to be more careful. Only dead men can't hurt Midi's family. "

Then, Midi eyes the remaining five living bodies on the ground. The poor, unsuspecting men are blissful unconscious so they are spared from witnessing the insanity on the house-elf's face. Midi raises the knife as he begins to sing.

_"Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement's."_

Chop, chop, slash. Severing of heads.

_"You owe me five farthings, Say the bells of St. Martin's."_

A quick cut to open the arteries, straight-forward, easy, like bloodletting of Thanksgiving turkeys.

_"I do not know, Says the great bell of Bow. "_

Blood, blood everywhere.

_"Here comes a candle to light you to bed, And here comes a chopper to chop off your head! "_

Quickly, they are all dead.

Instantly, the smell of blood fills the room, raw and metallic and full of life. Blood spurt out of jagged wounds on the men's necks, in trickles like leaking garden hoses. Midi's incisions are just deep enough to reveal white bones underneath pink flesh, with the men's voice boxes all hacked open. A carpet of red is rolling over the gray concrete.

Tom watches in fascination as redness pools around him. He has always liked red, and the smell of blood has excited his magic. It purrs, sinister and awake and full of power.

Beside him, Nagini hisses hotly as human blood dirties her beautiful scales. She slithers over to Tom and climbs onto his shoulder, wrapping her cold body around him like a snug scarf.

_**"Idiotic rat,"**_ she hisses in disgust. _**"Poison is much faster and much less messier**_."

In that moment, the door swings open as Harry rushes inside.

"Good news," shouts Harry excitedly. "He talked. Told me everything. Turns out they are just some small-time gang looking to make a quick buck— no conspiracy here —"

Harry halts as warm liquid splashes against his boots. He looks down. His boots and pants are sticky with blood. He looks at the three of them, then groans.

Harry throws his hands up, exasperated. "Ugh... MIDI. What did I say about murdering people without my permission?... Come on... _See_, you are scaring Tom."

Midi lowers his head in shame. His lips trembling as if he's about to burst into tears.

"I'm not scared," interjects Tom suddenly. "They deserve it. They beat me."

Tom lifts up his robe to reveal the purple-blue bruises underneath.

Harry's eyes narrow dangerously. He kneels down next to the child, hands spray against Tom's bare stomach, warm fingers tracing all the pain his son had to endure.

"Yes," murmurs Harry. "Death is too good for them..."

The feathery touch of Harry's fingers tickles on Tom's skin. Tom feels Harry's magic spike in anger, swirling around them in a formidable force. He looks into those emerald eyes and finds a rare darkness inside them— redness bursting from familiar green — a darkness so similar to Tom's own. It is all a bit frightening, but —_oh_—so alluring.

Tom stares at Harry's face hungrily, all pains forgotten, as he commits the image to memory. _One day_, he swears to himself, _I too_ _will have enough power to match Harry's own._

_Red and green. Together forever._

Harry inspects the carnage in the room. Finally, he stands up and takes Tom's hands.

"Well, I suppose they are still _useable_ like this... Come with me, Tom, let's go and put on a show."

* * *

Next morning, near the back-gates of the famous Zürich Wizarding Counsel Building, a group of early-risers are crowding around a wall, murmuring excitedly amongst themselves as they stare up at an enormous, blood-red message painted on the stone building. The crowd only grows larger as more and more government workers joined them. Everyone is looking up in astonishment and horror, as they read to themselves.

_"ACHTUNG. ATTENTION._ _ATTENZIONE."_

_"FROM NOW ON, ZURICH __AND ITS SURROUNDINGS ARE UNDER MY PROTECTION. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE. LEAVE OR BEHAVE. OR I WILL COME FOR YOU."_

It is signed: _LORD VOLDEMORT_. Beside the name is a small, green, hand-drawn sigil — a rather horror-inspiring thing— of a snake slithering out the mouth of a skull.

Beneath the red letters, nine bloodied heads are nailed into the stone wall in a neat row. Their dead eyes are opening upward, toward the message, pious and repenting as if they are no more than common worshippers crawling out of a grotesque mural on a chapel's wall.

* * *

Somewhere, on the outskirt a picturesque wizarding German town, in the war room of a vaguely evil-looking castle, reigns a very important gentleman named Gellert Grindelwald. Currently, he is sitting majestically behind a circular desk, golden blonde hair tied back in a traditional bow, sharp blue eyes focusing on the photographs in front of him.

He takes a sip of some unidentifiable, amber Schnapps.

"Lord Voldemort, hmmm?... I bet Dumbledore's meddling again—"

A middle-aged, stocky man is standing in front of the German Dark Lord, nervously waiting to receive orders. Today is the man's first day on the job. So, he is not important enough for Grindelwald to remember his name, so let's just call him Random Henchmen #1 for now.

Random Henchmen #1 looks at his Lord with skittish eyes. He opens his mouth, then wisely closes it.

"What?! — _Speak_," snaps the Dark Lord.

"It is just... it is just... Lord Voldemort, _sire_. He cut off their heads— nine bloody heads — and pinned them to the wall. That seems... in my humble opinion... well, that seems a bit dark to be a part of Dumbledore's plots."

"_Nonsense_. I know the work of my enemies. Look it at these letters. Look at them."

"... I'm looking, sire. But... but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to see—"

"_Dummkopf_. It's as obvious as daylight. Look at these words. LOOK. They are red. As red as Dumbledore's own hair."

"... I think... I think that's because they are written in blood, sire."

"Exactly," roars Grindelwald. "You SEE! That blood-traitor thinks he can fool me with common theatrics—"

As Grindelwald continues rambling on about his nemesis, Random Henchmen #1 remembers the one piece of advice that the other attendants had given him. _If his Lordship becomes angry about anything_—_anything at all_—_you must remember that everything is always Dumbledore's fault._

"Quite right, quite right, sire," Random Henchmen #1 nods nervously in agreement. This is his first day on the job, he cannot fuck up. "Everything is obviously Dumbledore's fault."

* * *

Somewhere, in a very green part of Scotland, inside a clustered office on the top of the southwest tower of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore is reading a letter intently. Professor Dumbledore frowns as he inspects the photos in his hands. He pops a lemon drop into his mouth.

Zürich. Lord Voldemort_. Another Dark Lord?..._ As if Gellert isn't trouble enough—

Dumbledore's initial reaction is that this is the work of one of Grindelwald's _Blut-Ritters_. If the man is already expanding into Switzerland, it won't be long before he extends his talons toward Britain.

The Light Lord sighs deeply and massages his tired eyes. Then he reaches for his quill and parchment paper. Alright, it is time do more scheming—_planning _—he means planning.

* * *

Lady Evetivina von Olsson is going through her morning routine as she inspects all front-pages of her various newspapers. The Voldemort story is headlining nearly all of them.

_A new Dark Lord?_ They do tend to pop up once now and again, although this is certainly not the one she was expecting. Lady Evetivina scans the headlines and purses her lips in annoyance. What a mess of confusion! Such a big event and, nearly three hours later, they still have no real information on the group. _Nicht akzeptabel!_

She pulls out the only paper that didn't lead with Voldemort, one of the sports ones. This one went with the scoop of Harry Potter's disappointing decision to play for England in the Quidditch World Cup (he has duel citizenship). She stares at a photo of her young friend, smiling shyly at the camera. _My oh my_, he certainly is photogenic. No wonder her daughter is so infatuated with him.

Lady Evetivina certainly hopes her daughter's girlish infatuation will end soon. It is getting annoying. Beside, with all the rumours swirling around the mysterious young man, she doubts that her simple little girl will ever manage to tame him.

She clasps her hands, finally satisfied with all the editions.

_A (possible) Dark Lord in Voldemort and a (possible) Light Lord in Peverell. Great news for all those in the business._

_How fun!_ Suddenly, her peaceful little Zürich is the talk of Europe. _But more importantly_, she smiles as she sips her coffee, _such tantalizing tales will sell papers like hot cakes_. _Oh gosh, hysteria and murders always made the most excellent tales._

* * *

Mary Sue sobs into the pillow as she beats her feeble fists against the bed.

Out of the blue, Harry dumped _and_ fired her. _She doesn't understand_! She ran out of his house crying, without listening to any explanations, which, in her experience, means that he was suppose to follow her and press a passionate kiss before confessing that he only acted out of love— because he loved her so much that he was scared of commitment, scared that he was going to hurt her. Then, she was supposed to call him an idiot until he kisses her again, then everything would go back to normal.

Everything was supposed to be _perfect_!

He was supposed to beg her to come back.

But instead, the very next day, she received all her luggage in the mail. And Harry never even apologized once.

Maybe he dumped her for real?

Impossible...How DARE he?! No one ever breaks-up with Mary Sue and gets away with it! — NO ONE!

_Oh, this isn't over, Harry Potter,_ Marry Sue thinks to herself, as she bites the pillow out of anger.

_I'll be back_.

* * *

As Tom lies half-asleep in bed, he thinks about all the interesting things that have transpired in the last twenty-four hours. The dead man's wand is displaced prominently on his bookshelf, _a trophy_, a commemoration of his first kill — not that the brainless beast deserves any commemoration. Tom has felt nothing about killing those men. Nothing at all, no guilt, no remorse nor joy... not even a brief moment of glory as he destroyed his enemies so easily.

He feels nothing for them. They are but vermin, not even worth the breath of his thoughts. But Harry had praised him — and Harry's words always meant something to Tom — so Tom kept the wand as a trophy, as a remainder of the path he had chosen, as a remainder of the power of manipulations and words.

Tom is thinking about Lord Voldemort. Harry had taken him to paint the message on the wall together, father and son cloaked in darkness of the night, bonding over blood and severed heads. _It was great!_

_SEE!_ He was right! He knew that Harry is secretly a Dark Lord.

Although that name, _Vol de mort_ — theft of death— well, Tom thinks it sounds rather stupid. He means it's a bit obvious for a Dark Lord, _isn't it?_ Garish even?

Although when he complained to Harry about it, Harry only laughed as he gave Tom a meaningful wink. The young man explained, _"I thought you would love it, Tom. After all, you're a Riddle and Lord Voldemort is a riddle too. The name is an anagram for a very important wizard, someone who, one day, people everywhere will know his name."_

A riddle? What does Harry mean by that?

Right before Tom falls into deep slumber, the answer suddenly came to him.

_'I am Lord Voldemort'_ is the anagram for _Tom Marvolo Riddle_! It's Tom's own name. The Riddle.

Harry had said Tom is a very important wizard. Tom — the little orphan with the ordinary name — who will one day become a Lord, someone who people everywhere will know his name.

Tom presses his face into the soft pillow, dark eyes glistening with elation and desires.

Dark Lords. Power and respect. Blood and family. Fear and revenge.

_Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort_.

Suddenly, Lord Voldemort sounds like the best name in the world.

* * *

Ugh, writing is so hard. OMG. Darn, these characters are going so OOC. This is why I don't write fiction... well, fanfiction.

*** Please pretend the Germans are speaking German. The Swiss are speaking German/French/Italian/Romansh. The British are ... well, that's obvious.

So I was googling( verb?) anagrams for Tom Marvolo Riddle, and a reddit post came up. LOL. It's a discussion on the other evil-sounding names that Tom had rejected. Apparently, a lot of names has 'dildo' in them.

P.s. The link to the reddit post is on this story's AO3 version (chapter 7), if anyone's interested.


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